Eyeties and Nazis and Bears, Oh My! BY JORDRE
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: The further adventures of Hogan and the General; Book 2 of same.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Nope, don't own em, don't make any money off 'em; you know the drill.

**A/N: **This story is part 2 of a series called "Hogan and the General." Since this story picks up where "A Papa Bear of His Very Own" ends, it is strongly recommended that you read that story first, if you haven't already done so.

This story in no way reflects the author's feelings regarding Italians or any other ethnic group; it's just the way things turned out in this universe.

Since there was no actual Military District XVI, and therefore no real "Stalag XVI"; I chose to place my fictional "Stalag XVI" in the vicinity of Düsseldorf. Author's prerogative. ;D

_**Hogan's Heroes**_

**Eye-ties and Nazis and Bears, Oh My!**

**(Book 2 of Hogan and the General)**

**by**

**Jordre**

**Chapter 1**

Snow had fallen overnight, the first snow of winter. It lay like a pure white blanket over the land, hiding the ravages of war. Hogan stared out the staff car's window in pensive silence as they neared Stalag 16 at last.

_There but for the grace of God,_ the young American thought, masking a shudder, knowing that he was too tired for this, too tired really to think straight right then. It was a good thing _he_ wasn't the one driving. He hadn't slept well the night before, plagued by nightmares. He hadn't expected the executions to bother him like that. And Burkhalter had thought he'd been offering a treat. The memory turned his stomach.

Everyone had been starting to leave after that horrendous dinner gathering in the officers' club. Oh yeah, the _food_ had been great, but the strain of that particular dog and pony show had been extreme; he'd been glad to see them go. Then…

_«Sebastian,» Burkhalter wondered aloud, «do you need to keep Hogan on a short Leash, or will he stay with anyone?»_

_Mannheim looked at his portly countryman in curiosity. «He will do as he is told; why, Albert?»_

_«I know you will be busy again with final Meetings tomorrow, but I had the thought that he might find it gratifying to accompany me in the Afternoon. I understand that they are hanging Hochstetter and Feldkamp around 1300 Hours. I was planning on witnessing that, for all the Grief those Swine gave me over my POW Camps and escaping Prisoners; Hogan must surely owe Hochstetter even more, especially for the way he kept hauling Hogan in for questioning. Justifiably, as things turned out, but… I would love to rub those vicious Brutes' Noses in the Fact that the American will live, while _they_ will not. A petty Vengeance, true, but I will take what I can get.»_

_To do him credit, Hogan thought, Mannheim stared into the fire a bit, carefully thinking this over. Finally, he sighed and looked at his bondsman, his eyes troubled. «What say you, Rob? Are you willing to go? I will not force this on you.»_

_«Sure I'll go,» he agreed without hesitation, a surge of justified revenge burning in his breast. And he felt that way all the rest of the night, and through the next morning. He dressed with care, after an early lunch, in his bondsman's undress uniform, breaking with Mannheim's personal regulation in order to wear his trademark crush cap; he didn't want Hochstetter, in particular, to miss knowing exactly who he was, after all. Even after he got into Burkhalter's car, he felt a feeling of vindication for all the innocent people tortured and persecuted by the Gestapo and SS, as represented by Hochstetter. But the air of jovial viciousness, of perverse pleasure as they waited for the judicial victims to be brought out brought him back to earth. It sickened him to realize that, in this case at least, he was no better than his former Gestapo antagonists. It only grew worse when he realized that the Germans did not use a drop-trap when they hanged a political prisoner, but let the victim slowly strangle on the end of the rope._

_And that could have been his own fate very easily, instead of the firing squad he had been scheduled to face._

_"Hogan, are you all right?" Burkhalter asked him in genuine concern, for his normally devil-may-care companion was looking decidedly pale now. Had this been a mistake? Surely not._

_"I'll be fine," Hogan managed to reply, although his jaw was much tighter than normal. He could only pray for this to be over soon._

_Then they were bringing out Hochstetter. Burkhalter couldn't resist jibing his disgraced foe. "Wolfgang, look who has come to see you off," the Luftwaffe general called out._

_The little Gestapo man reminded Hogan of nothing so much as a Bantam rooster as his head swiveled around, scanning the witnesses with hate-maddened eyes. He gaped when he saw his enemy. "Vat iss ziss man doing here?!!" he screamed with rage. His guards had to drag him to the rope, wrestling to keep him from attacking Hogan._

_All in all, it was a very bad death, for his lighter weight made it take longer for the rope to do its work. Hogan was glad that Burkhalter left after that hanging was done. He was even more grateful for the large glass of schnapps that he was given once they got back to the general's car. It was somewhat reassuring that Burkhalter looked rather uncomfortable himself over the executions; Hogan didn't want to know why, preferring to ride back to his quarters in the detention wing in silence. _

_He had no appetite for dinner, remaining secluded in his cell. Mannheim wisely left him alone, but still he had those nightmares…_

~oOo~

"I should not have let you go." Mannheim's voice broke the brittle silence in the car.

Slowly, Hogan turned to look at him from his seat beside the driver. "You had to let me go. It's what I wanted - or thought I did, anyway. But I'd forgotten…a lot of things. Like compassion, and forgiveness. Things not useful in the kind of war I ended up fighting. We both know how thick-headed I can be; I needed that lesson. I'll be okay in a while, and this way, I'll remember." He still couldn't meet the general's eyes; blessedly, he was left to his own thoughts once more. Weber maintained a careful silence.

The car's jolting through a rough turn brought him back to his surroundings once more. This small road had seen a good bit of heavy traffic lately, for it was rutted badly, the winter rains having turned it into a morass in places. That their driver did not bog them down was nothing short of a miracle, so bad was the approach to the _Stalag._

And now the fence was before them, stark and grim in the glare of the searchlights. With a start, Hogan realized that it was nearly dark; between the weather and the late season, evening came early these days. He shivered at the sight of the camp, for this place was properly built to hold prisoners, not as Stalag 13 had been. That old camp had been a joke, almost as if it had been designed to facilitate escape. There, the buildings had not been up on piles, but had sat practically on the ground. The sub-soil had been a close match in color and texture to that on the surface, with very little sand, which had expedited tunnelling… "General Mannheim? Who designed Stalag 13, sir?" he found himself asking as he gazed at the guard barracks and _Kommandantur _of Stalag 16, outside the wire. No easy raiding the Commandant's safe for secret documents here. Or borrowing cars or trucks from the motor pool, either.

"What do you mean, Rob?"

"Who designed it? I could hardly have made it better suited to our purposes if I'd been asked what I wanted. Short of there being no fence or guards actually present, that is." He couldn't keep from chuckling at the thoughtful look in his German superior's face at that realization. "I mean, look at this place. Huts up off the ground; no _way_ we could have gotten to the Commandant's office to place bugs. Trees cut _way_ back from the wire. And I'll bet they've got a small fortune in microphones in here, to detect tunnelling sounds. I don't know that we could have pulled off half the stuff we did, if our camp had been built like this one."

"I hadn't thought of that, Rob. I will have to look into it," Mannheim muttered, distracted by the sight of trucks being unloaded by the east compound's main gate. Weary men were being herded into confinement, many staggering from weakness and muscle cramps from a long, cold ride. Each clutched a box or bag in desperate arms, all the worldly goods each possessed. None were dressed for the cold of a German winter.

"Wonder where those poor devils are from," Hogan muttered, upset by the prisoners' obviously poor condition.

"I don't know, but I plan on finding out!" Mannheim snapped.

The general's reply surprised Hogan, for he sounded extremely angry. A sharp rap on the driver's shoulder had the large car coming smoothly to a halt next to the foremost truck; men in ragged Commonwealth and American army uniforms lurched quickly out of the way.

«Idiot!»Mannheim shouted at the driver. «You are fortunate you did not hit one of them, for you would have been charged. Watch where you go next time! »

"_Ja-jawohl, mein General,"_ the young corporal stammered. Making POWs jump frantically out of the way had been a popular pastime among the men of his old unit; their officers had always laughed as the endangered men had tried to scurry out of harm's way. _This_ officer, however, did _not _find this amusing; he would definitely remember _that_ in the future.

But Mannheim wasn't waiting for the driver's acknowledgment; Hogan barely had time to scramble from his seat in front and open his general's door, for the German was quite literally erupting from the car's interior. «Who is in charge here?» he demanded in a tone that clearly would brook no argument. He glared around at whichever soldiers he could see, but none claimed that distinction, until a young captain arrived, breathless, from the direction of the _Kommandantur._ He snapped to attention, saluting crisply, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by his shivering. Mannheim's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, for this whip-thin young officer was dressed as poorly for the weather as were his men and their charges.

«Hauptmann Erik Kraemer reporting, Herr General,» he announced himself, trying desperately to control his trembling, «15th Panzer Division, Afrika Korps, Oberst Dietrich commanding.»

«Afrika Korps?» Mannheim repeated in surprise. «You are far from your normal Operational Area, Captain. What are you doing here, and where did these Prisoners come from?»

«We were being transferred from Africa, General,» Captain Kraemer began to explain. «We shipped across the Mediterranean, but were convoying our Equipment up through Italy, as there were not enough Rail Cars available. Shortly before we crossed into Germany, perhaps 75 Kilometers from the Border, the Road passed a POW Camp. The Men there…They were three-quarters starved, General, and kept in appalling Conditions. Overcrowded, filthy; many were sick. And the Italian Guards treated them like Dogs and laughed as they kicked them. Our Major complained to their Kommandant; he was laughed at and nearly thrown out of the Office. But he had served under Oberst Dietrich a long time; _he_ would not have tolerated such. So we raided the Camp that Night, taking all the Camp Records and the surviving Prisoners. Our Trucks were very crowded; much of our Men's Gear was lashed to our Tanks to make room, but we emptied the Camp. Major Knust called ahead to Berlin and was told to bring the Prisoners here for processing and safekeeping.

«They look better than they did, Herr General. They've had four Days of reasonable Rations, and the best Care we could give them under the Circumstances. Major Knust sent me with the Column to deliver the Prisoners, while he stayed with our Men and Equipment. Oberst Dietrich is in Berlin, getting Orders for the Division.»

Hogan managed to keep his own face straight as he watched one corner of Mannheim's mouth twitch. Had _they_ ever been so young, so eager to please? Probably, he admitted to himself with a mental snort. But this young captain had done well, if what he'd just relayed had been even close to the truth. There had to be nearly a thousand men here, to judge by the number of trucks they were emptying. No small feat, with the men in such weakened condition.

The four men watched as cold prisoners were ushered into the long barracks buildings, many more to each than had been originally intended. Other prisoners, much better dressed for the climate, appeared, carrying piles of folded blankets from the camp storerooms for the newest residents.

«We will be somewhat short of Fuel for the Stoves, Herr General, but we will manage. I have already ordered more to be trucked in, along with additional Rations. I could not very well have turned them away, not in this Weather.»

Mannheim turned to look at the new speaker, smiling as he saw his former aide, now a colonel himself and the current _Kommandant_ of Stalag 16. «I would not have forgiven you if you had, Rudi,» he said as he accepted the younger officer's salute. "As you say, you will manage. No doubt they are just glad to have better Treatment at last.

«But I wonder, was this just an isolated Case, or are Conditions this bad throughout Italy?»

«I do not know, Herr General, but I will inquire. Will you come inside now, General Mannheim?» Colonel Rudolph Ritter stepped back, motioning toward the _Kommandantur_. «It is cold, and Hauptmann Kraemer is not used to this Climate. He will not come back inside until you go in yourself.»

Ah, yes, Hogan thought with a laugh to himself, _this_ man knew Mannheim only too well. He trailed after the German officers as they headed off to the waiting warmth indoors, ignored now and grateful for the blessed anonymity at last.

The office of the _Kommandant_ was spartan, but gratifyingly warm. With a contented sigh, Mannheim eased his frame into a remarkably comfortable wooden chair, watching surreptitiously as the young _Afrika Korps Hauptmann_ took the chair left vacant nearest the stove. Without looking around, the general knew his bondsman had placed himself against the wall behind his superior, but so inconspicuously that it would be some time before either of the other two officers would notice him. Weber also stood, close to the door so as to be ready to retrieve anything that his general might need or desire.

A slight grin quirked one side of Mannheim's mouth. "So tell me, Rudi," he asked in English, forcing all hints of levity from his voice. "Do your inmates give you any problems? Any - How do they say it? - sorrow?"

"'Grief,' you mean, _mein General,_" Hogan's voice came softly from behind. He knew Mannheim's command of idiom was better than that; this was obviously an opening to call attention to his bondsman, for Weber probably wouldn't have known the correct term.

"Ah, yes, that is it. Do they give you any grief, Rudi?" Mannheim's eyes sparkled with a devilish delight that Ritter remembered all too well. So he was supposed to notice this man who chose to stay back in the shadows. Very well; he would play this game, and gladly, for, truth to tell, his curiosity _was_ piqued by the unusual uniform and self-effacing nature of this stranger. So: "Forgive me, _mein General;_ I know your current aide, _Leutnant_ Weber, and you have met _Hauptmann_ Kraemer; who is our last guest?" Ritter asked with proper decorum and a smile, for he knew he played this assigned part correctly.

«Ah, yes, Rudi. You have not yet met my Bondsman. This is what the High Command decided to do with the American-born POWs, you see - But I wrote you about that, did I not? »

«_Ja, mein General,_ you did, although you did not say that you had claimed one for yourself.» Ritter did not have to pretend curiosity now as he looked again at the man standing behind the general. _Heer-_ cut uniform, but no rank tabs. And blue, not _Wehrmacht_ gray. Keen dark eyes studied him just as intently, Kommandant Ritter noted, straightening unconsciously under the American's scrutiny.

Mannheim grinned openly upon seeing his former aide's reaction to Hogan's presence. «Rudi, this is Robert Hogan, formerly a Colonel in the RAF. You have heard of him; in fact, you have even met him before this, while you were still my Senior Aide and training Weber for that Post. Yes, you have,» he insisted gently at Ritter's headshake of denial. «I will prove that to you later. But you will know him, now, by his more infamous Code Name of PAPA fact, you should still have most of his key Men here.»

«Most of them, Herr General_?_» Hogan quickly interrupted, caution thrown to the winds. «What's happened to the others?»

«Gently, Rob; they should all be well,» Mannheim hurried to reassure him. «At least two are out on Assignment, for they have Skills which are greatly needed: Sergeants Kinchloe and Baker are out repairing Telephone Lines, I believe. This is Work that Kinchloe, at least, has done before, in Civilian Life. I doubt he will find it too onerous, and he has conscientious Guards with him for his and Baker's Protection.

«Whom did you send with them, Ritter?» he then demanded, suddenly turning his attention back to the young _Kommandant._

«One of the Guards who came from Stalag 13 was promoted and sent as Sergeant of the Guard, mein General_._ Feldwebel Langensheidt has eight Men with him, all trustworthy, and all seem to get along well enough with the Bondsmen.» Ritter watched with interest as all tension left the American's body at the sergeant's name. Apparently this was an acceptable escort for the two repairmen. «Major Vonhoff, the Officer in charge of North Compound, recommended him for the Duty and had him select his own Men. The two Bondsmen went with them willingly enough, mein General_._»

«Langensheidt's a good Man,» Hogan commended, his voice soft again. «A good-hearted Man, mein General_._ He was one of our 'tame goons,' although he never got to see anything—well, except once. We never tried to bribe him the way we did Schultz; he wasn't as gullible, for one thing. Plus, being young, he was more at risk of being shipped to the Russian Front. We tried to protect the Guys we considered our own, even if they were Krauts, to us. He deserved the Promotion.»

Klink would have sneered something like _so glad you approve, Hogan, _Rob thought morosely. Mannheim and, yes, Ritter too, just nodded in agreement. And then they surprised him again.

«Any of the others on that List sent out, Ritter?» the general asked his former aide. «Hogan will rest better Tonight if he knows.»

«In that case, mein General_,_ one moment, please.» Ritter turned to a nearby file cabinet and extracted a folder, which Hogan had to force himself not to try to read. A few page-turns within brought surprising answers. «_Ja,_ here it is,» Ritter remarked, pleased at his memory. "Olsen is bonded out to a local Farm Family, the Koenigs, along with Garlotti and two others from Barracke 2, Stalag 13.» He paused, looking up at Hogan. "Do you want their names? I have that information here, although they were not on the primary list of your men."

Hogan was stunned. Asking _him_ if he wanted more information? Usually he had to pry every scrap out of them! "No, thanks; That's okay," he finally remembered to respond, quickly adding a more polite, _"Herr Oberst."_

Mannheim burst into laughter. «Congratulations, Rudi. I never though I'd see the Day someone could take Rob by surprise. And for simple courtesy!»

Ritter looked stunned, then suddenly embarrassed. «Mein General_,_ forgive me. I sit here chattering like a Fool; you must be tired. I know that Hauptmann Kraemer is exhausted, although he won't admit it. Would you care for some Supper? I will have Quarters prepared for you and your Men right away.»

«Where are you keeping the Bear's Cubs, Rudi?» Mannheim asked seriously, although his eyes laughed again.

«The 'Bear's Cubs,' mein General_?_» Ritter couldn't hide his confusion at that question. «We do not keep Animals here, although Barracke 5 in North Compound _is _being allowed to keep a Dog as a Pet.»

«_Nein,_ Rudi. Not true Animals. Since Hogan, here, is PAPA BEAR, his closest Men must, therefore, be his Cubs. He would fight and give his Life for them; what else _could_ they be?»

«I see. They are all out in Barracke 14. Perhaps he would prefer to spend Tonight out there with them? Our Officers' Quarters are much warmer, but… I believe there are several empty Bunks there, although no private Rooms are free.»

«I don't need a private Room,» Hogan quickly asserted. He turned nearly pleading eyes to his superior, not knowing how many other opportunities he might have to see his men - his friends - in the future.

«I have no Objections,» Mannheim added thoughtfully. «In Fact, I think that this might be good for all concerned. I have no doubts that they believe Hogan to be thoroughly dead by now - you allow Newspapers into Camp, _ja?_ That Trial was too well publicized, but the commutation of his Sentence was never mentioned. Just have your Gate Guards give him free access, so he can be at my Quarters by 0730. He will not abuse the Privilege. He _will_ stand Appell with them, when he is not with me.»

«They have been fed tonight already,» Ritter cautioned, «and they do not have Food in the Barracks anymore, as they no longer receive Red Cross Packages. You should all eat first; the Food isn't _too_ dreadful in the Officers' Mess. If you will allow him in…?»

«That's where he usually eats. What say you, Rob? The cold in the Barracks will be easier to take on a full Stomach. You can eat with your Men Tomorrow.»

"_Danke, mein General." _Hogan was in a daze. This was much more than he'd hoped for. It would have been nice to see Kinch again, but he'd gratefully accept what he was given. Lost in memories of the past, he couldn't say what he ate then, or how good or bad it was. He did not see the tolerant glances sent his way by Mannheim, or the grins Weber directed at him. He knew little until the December wind cut into him through his greatcoat.

He shivered in the cold, looking around to find himself standing before the opening gates of a prison compound, two bundled-up privates carrying his baggage and acting as escorts. He shivered again, this time from more than just the cold. There would be no easy escape from _this_ compound, but there was no longer any escape for him in any case. Head down against the wind, he went where his escort directed.

North Compound was fairly new, built since the end of the war as one of several holding areas for American POWs gathered from across France and Germany. As such, the huts were both larger and better built than those in Hogan's previous experience, with more men in each. _Barracke_ 14 was towards the middle of the compound, well away from the wire in all directions. He hid a grin as he scouted out his surroundings. Searchlights would cover all sides of this particular building, more so than most of the others. It was no accident that the "Bear's Cubs" were housed here.

He followed one guard in through the open door, head still down against the wind, chin and lower face burrowed deep into the collar of his greatcoat. The bill of his cap partially shielded the upper half of his face, totally hiding his identity. Several prisoners sat in what was apparently a common area just inside the door, a stove at the farther end throwing its warmth more towards the rows of triple-decker bunks that lined both sides of the central aisle, down to about a third the length of the building. He estimated that sixty men could be housed in this section of the barracks alone. Further down were what appeared to be private or semi-private rooms, for officers, no doubt. Near the far end were the latrines, and a small indoor shower area. Beyond that, Hogan could see a few more racks of bunks, then another sitting area, and another door to the outside. A large building indeed, when compared to the 16-man huts at Stalag 13. But his reflections were abruptly interrupted.

"'Ere, now, you can't be puttin' no Kraut in 'ere wi' us!" a British voice protested indignantly, in very familiar tones. A lean man in worn RAF blues came forward, daring to block the first guard carrying one of Hogan's bags.

"Newkirk, don't be an idiot," Hogan called out, knowing that he needed to defuse this situation quickly. "And watch who you're calling a Kraut. You could give a guy a complex that way." He picked his head up, letting the men gathered at the long table there see his face, and waited for the inevitable explosion once the shock wore off.

"Colonel Hogan!" Carter cried out, rushing forward. "Boy, am I sure glad to see _you! …_Uh, sir." He stopped his precipitous rush just short of grabbing Hogan in a great hug, as he suddenly remembered proper military courtesy.

But Hogan threw that out the window himself as he grabbed Carter in a quick embrace, releasing him, grabbing shoulders and hands, and slapping backs as the rest of his men clustered around, all talking at once and trying to be heard in the sudden confusion. The two guards, ignored, backed against the walls with Hogan's bags, somehow keeping from being trampled. They exchanged surprised looks, too, then grinned at each other, amused at the obvious popularity of General Mannheim's bondsman despite his having been an officer.

Several of the doors to the small rooms opened at the sound of the hubbub, men peering out with cautious curiosity. Most went back to their own bunks and pursuits once they'd determined that no riot was threatening to break out, but one or two came out to joint the throng when they saw who was at the center of the whirlpool of greetings.

"All right!" Hogan shouted at last, for he knew that the two guards would tolerate this chaos only so long. "Pipe down, you guys! Back off and give me some room!" He waited as they slowly obeyed, finally sitting on a bench at the table. "You clowns have an extra bunk in here somewhere?"

"Sure, Colonel. Uh, we don't have a room for ya, sir," Carter added unhappily.

"That's what happens when you don't call ahead for reservations, Andrew," Hogan laughed back. Leave it to Carter, he thought fondly. "Any bunk will do, just so I can get my gear dumped and let these guys go back to their own barracks. They're off duty, and we're wasting their time."

Uncertain looks were passed among the men, but one look towards the waiting guards decided the matter. "'Ere, sir, you take my bunk over 'ere, next to the stove. It's a bit warmer than the rest." Newkirk was grabbing up his gear as he spoke, intending to move closer to the door.

_"Nein, Englander,"_ one of the guards spoke up with a laugh. _"Der Vater Bär_ can sleep here; he vill haff varm blankets enough." So saying, he deposited Hogan's bag on the nearest vacant bunk and indicated that his comrade should do likewise.

Hogan grinned at the man and winked. "You heard the man, Newkirk. I sleep there. And this way, they'll know where I'll be when they do a surprise bed-check tonight."

The door slammed open then, causing several men to leap for it to prevent too much of their warmth from leaking out. Sure enough, this man carried three officer-grade blankets, neatly folded. He looked around, scowling at the men gathered there, but placed his burden on the bed holding Hogan's bags.

"This 'ere's 'Ermann, Colonel," Newkirk explained. "'E's our barracks-guard. Not cheerful like Schultzie, as you can see, but 'e knows us all, 'e does." He fell silent as the man's scowl darkened, but the German did not strike out.

"_Herr Major_ Vonhoff says you vill haff an extra hour of lights tonight, because _he_ is here. Lights-out _vill_ be at 10, _verstehen?"_

_"Wir verstehen, Herr Gefreiter,"_ Hogan responded respectfully, causing the corporal to look at him carefully, as if trying to decide whether some insult was intended or not. With a disgusted snort, he turned at last and exited the building, the other two guards trailing after him.

********

0500. It came too quickly, in Hogan's estimation, but he was up and out with his men, as expected. Just like old times, he thought with a genuine smile, as he shifted from one foot to the other. The only difference was that he was warm now, in his good coat. Nor could he feel bad about it any longer, for all the men in Barracks 14, at least, also had warm coats now. No doubt the newcomers from Italy were suffering in this weather, though, Hogan mused as Hermann the barracks-guard quickly and efficiently made his count. Without the need to keep the guards off-balance any longer, his men stood quietly in ranks, the sooner to return to their warm bunks until breakfast at 0630. He would have plenty of time to eat with his men and still get to Mannheim's quarters by 0730.

The _Oberfeldwebel_ came around to take Hermann's count, and that of the other barracks-guards, then went to report to an officer at the front of the compound. Their group was too far back to see rank tabs clearly, but Hogan suspected that this would be Major Vonhoff, North Compound's OIC. Relaxed, all stress gone now that he had nothing to hide from the Germans, Hogan let his gaze wander. For the first time since he'd been shot down, he had the leisure to appreciate the beauty of freshly fallen snow.

"Dismissed," came the call up near the compound gates. Hogan began to gather his wandering thoughts, only to have them scatter again as a snowball from out of nowhere caught his right shoulder with respectable force. The formation dissolved into the most massive snowball fight he had ever participated in. Yes, he was definitely in the thick of things, and so were a number of the younger guards, he saw with a jolt of shock. They had passed their rifles off to several of their comrades and fought indiscriminately, not German vs. American.

At last, though, he'd had enough and retreated into the safety and warmth of his barracks. He glanced at his watch and uttered a brief curse; he'd get no breakfast this morning, and he had exactly five minutes to clean up and get to the general's quarters.

The others were just coming in, laughing and joking, as he headed for the door.

"Hey, Colonel, where're ya goin'? We're not _that_ late for breakfast!" Carter called out, but Hogan's rapidly retreating back gave no answer. "Geez," the young American mused, "was it something we said?"

As usual, no one bothered to answer him, but many couldn't help wondering the same thing.

The gate guard saw him coming and moved to block the way; a shouted order from the _Oberfeldwebel_ moved him back to one side and had the gate swinging open. _"Danke!"_ Hogan called out, not slowing his pace as he headed for the _Kommandantur. _Someone there would have to tell him where the general had been quartered last night, he realized, for he didn't have the slightest idea.

Or perhaps he did, after all. Four buildings down was one that looked like barracks of the better sort; waiting by the steps was Weber, shivering slightly in the morning chill. Hogan changed course, heading over to the waiting German.

Whatever the young officer had been about to say, he changed his mind upon seeing the wet hair and cold-reddened cheeks of the American pilot. He only shook his head and indicated the door behind him. "He's waiting for you inside. Second door on the left."

Hogan tipped his hat at a jaunty angle (almost as bad as his old crush cap, Weber noted with a chuckle) and grinned back, his eyes alight with his joy in life. "I know: I'm late. No breakfast, either, but it was worth it." Then he passed in through the doorway, ready to accept his punishment.

A light tap on the door elicited a growled «Enter.» Hogan opened the door and slipped through, immediately bracing to attention. His face was a mask now, but his eyes still danced. Oh, yeah, he was gonna catch it; Mannheim had company in here: the camp's _Kommandant,_ Ritter. Still…

Mannheim had seen the snowball fight in progress and had actually expected his bondsman to appear much more disheveled, and much later. It was only by the greatest effort that he managed a scowl and an accompanying growl. "You're late," he stated, ready to come down hard on him.

"Yessir. No excuse, sir," Hogan calmly replied. That stopped his superior's tirade before it even began.

"What do you mean, 'no excuse'?" the general sputtered, nearly losing his resolve.

"No excuse, _mein General,"_ Hogan repeated. "I can give an explanation, but that's still no excuse for being…" He paused to check his watch, then returned to attention. "…fifteen minutes late."

"And your 'explanation,' Hogan?" Mannheim was managing not to laugh only by the greatest exertion of self-control. Ritter was not so restrained, but the American was carefully avoiding all notice of Mannheim's guest.

"Well, sir, there was this snowball fight. I was hit from behind, so I don't really know who threw the first one, but honor demanded that I retaliate…"

Mannheim lost it at that, howling with laughter at the reproachful look Hogan's face assumed.

"I had to go clean up first, before I could even start looking for your quarters, sir."

At last the two German officers managed to regain control. "Have you eaten yet, Rob?" Mannheim sighed as he wiped tears from his eyes.

"No, sir; I'd wasted more time than I realized. I didn't want to make it worse by being any later." Hogan grinned once more. "You've got me fed up well enough that it definitely won't kill me to miss breakfast. Serves me right, actually, for not watching the time better."

"No; you'll eat with me instead of your men this morning." Mannheim passed a critical eye over his bondsman and slowly nodded in approval. "Considering that you've just come from a pitched battle against overwhelming odds…" He threw a quelling glance over at Ritter, which only made him snicker louder.

«Well, it _was_ a pitched Battle,» Mannheim insisted with a laugh of his own. «I should know; I ordered it, and I will say that your Men obeyed beautifully, Rudi.»

It was Hogan's turn to gape, but he quickly laughed. "I should have known it was a setup when I saw the guards in there too, but _not_ taking any sides, and most of 'em pot-shotting _me_. One of them started it, didn't he?"

But Mannheim just grinned at his man as he headed out the door for breakfast.

The food was...edible, if you were starving, Hogan decided as he quickly choked down rubbery potato pancakes. The cook needed lessons, he decided as burned bacon was as rapidly consumed. If the officers' food was this bad, he hated to think what the common soldiers got.

Ritter noticed the American's grimace of distaste, but managed not to redden. He looked down at his own barely-touched meal with a sigh.

«I know you use what you are sent in the way of Personnel, Rudi,» Mannheim's voice was gentle in its rebuke, «but don't you think you can find better? I'm surprised your Men don't mutiny on you with Food like this.»

He was about to protest when he saw the young _Panzer_ captain about to enter, only to stop in the doorway, take one sniff, then turn and leave, quickly, as if hoping not to be spotted. Ritter sighed again.

«My Men got the better Cook, to prevent just such Rebellion. Many of my Officers eat in Town, or eat cold Meals in their Quarters. Front-line Troops get the good Cooks, I'm told, not such as us.»

«Rudi, you are being foolish. You have a Camp full of Men needing employment; why not use some of them?» There was no amusement in the general's voice now, for he had little tolerance for fools.

Yet again Ritter let out a sigh. «It's not what you think, mein General_._ We do use Bondsmen in the Kitchens; they do most of the Prep-work: the peeling, slicing, and such. But the Personnel Office sent Orders in the strictest terms that we were under no circumstances to allow any POW to do the actual cooking - to prevent poisoning.» He glared down at his plate, disgusted by the bureaucratic stupidity of those orders.

«I see,» Mannheim snorted, then looked thoughtful. «Who signed those Orders? Do you still have them?»

«Oh, _ja._ I posted them over by the Kitchen Entrance to silence all the Protests I was getting about the Food.» Ritter waved over to their left, where the nauseating odors were strongest. «They were signed by a General Kirsch. Artur Kirsch, to be precise. Who no doubt employs a private Cook and so does not suffer like the rest of us.»

«Forget those Orders and find yourself some Men who can cook,» Mannheim ordered without hesitation. «Have them working by Lunch; assign them out to this Camp for permanent Duty, so they will no longer be POWs, technically, so you will not be violating the Word, if not the Intent, of that idiotic Set of Orders. Then throw your current Cooks into the Cooler and send them to the Eastern Front for attempting to poison all your Men.» There was no laughter in the general's eyes or voice, so utterly serious was he.

_"Zu Befehl, mein General," _Ritter snapped out, more than happy to obey those orders. «If you will excuse me, I will see to it immediately.» He rose without waiting for any acknowledgment, beating a hasty retreat from the mess.

«Somehow, I'm glad I don't remember Supper last Night,» Hogan muttered, his voice just loud enough to be heard by Weber, who chuckled.

«It wasn't this bad,» the _leutnant_ confided. «The Cooks had gone off Duty; some Bondsmen fixed us some Sandwiches. They used canned Meat, saying the fresh stuff wasn't fit for _Schwein._ I believe them now.»

«So do I,» Mannheim added his own thoughts to the conversation. «But come; there is nothing here worth lingering over, and there is fresh Air outside. You can make up a Pot of Kaffe after we get to my Office, Rob. _That_ I know will be drinkable, and you will not poison us all through ignorance.»

«Nope. Never used Poison in my whole Life, General,» Hogan assured his companions, who laughed at the implications. Knife, garrote, or bullet, yes; poison, no. They left, finally, in accord with one another.

The _Kommandantur_ was quite large, Hogan noticed as they approached from this angle, crunching over the new snow. The only resemblance it bore to the one at Stalag 13 was the presence of an outer office. This was presided over by a businesslike corporal of the women's auxiliary, an older, hatchet-faced lady who destroyed that image by smiling warmly at the men intruding upon her domain. _"Guten Morgen, meine Herren,"_ she greeted them, and her smile did not dim in the least when she saw Hogan among the newcomers. «You have had three Calls already, Herr General; I have left the contact Numbers on your Aide's Desk.»

Mannheim returned _Fräulein _Doebrich's greeting, then added, «Leutnant Weber will screen my Calls now. Danke.»

The receptionist nodded in acknowledgment and returned to her own work.

Hogan followed the general down a short corridor that exited the left side of the office. This wing had several doors off either side of the hallway, which dead-ended in one final door. Mannheim's name, engraved on a brass plaque, was mounted on that. To the right a door stood open; Weber entered that room, drawing Hogan along with him. Sure enough, two large desks stood facing each other across the moderately-sized office; the hall-side wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling file cabinets. Both desks seemed to overflow with paper.

_"Diese mein ist,"_ Karl muttered unhappily as he looked at the layers of "dead tree" that obscured the right-hand desk's surface. But the other one was just as bad.

Two hours later, Hogan was ready to scream in frustration. Weber was sending all the sets of original paperwork, those going to England to begin the process of sending the English prisoners home once more. Hogan got all the rejected forms that the English had sent back for one reason or another.

And those reasons were nothing short of ridiculous: Typographical errors; misspelled words, including those spelled according to American rules instead of British; faded ink (Someone had actually written on one, "Too hard to read, old chap; do try again, but type harder this time, eh wot?") --- Anything and everything. There were even forms rejected because some letters were out of line from the rest, as if they expected the quality of set type instead of a simple typewriter. Any excuse, it seemed, to keep from allowing their own men home. Hogan looked over at the young _leutnant._ "This is garbage, Karl," he protested in disgust. "You'd think they'd be doing anything they could to get their guys back; instead, they're being as obstructive as possible. Have _any_ of the Brits been sent home?"

_"Nein._ And we have not got back any of _our_ men, either. _Unser General_ is...not amused," Weber grumbled, groaning as he stretched his back a bit. "It has been like this all month, until we went to Berlin for your trial. It is no better now. And the papers just pile higher..." He shook his head, rising to bring the latest stack in for Mannheim's signature.

«There's Room for another two hundred British in that Camp outside Paris,» Mannheim was saying to Ritter as Weber walked in. «Use some of those Trucks that Hauptmann Kraemer brought up from Italy. Start with Barracke One, taking out all British Citizens, until you reach that Number of Men.»

«We will have Problems, mein General,» Colonel Ritter remarked sourly. «There are a Number - small, true, but there - they are American-born, but held Citizenship since before the War. They were expecting to be repatriated along with the Native-born Englanders.»

«How many..._eine moment, bitte_. What do you need, Karl?» Mannheim interrupted himself to look over at his current aide.

«I have the first Stack of Forms ready for your Signature, mein General. I have checked them against our List of rejection Excuses; I swear these are all perfect.» He offered them to his general, who took the stack, scowling.

_«You _I don't doubt, but we both know they'll find _some_ Reason. I'm tempted to just load several cargo Planes with British POWs and dump them off on a Runway somewhere in England. Let the Military _there_ deal with the Problem...» Mannheim paused, thoughtful now. «You know, that just may be the Way to do this. They can't very well send them back to us; that would cause too much Anger among the rest of the Populace.» He turned to look at his former aide and grinned, his eyes laughing. «Rudi, see how many troop-transport Planes can be made available, and how soon. I want to get several Loads of these _Englanders_ home by Christmas, so we've got just over a Week to make this work.»

«Ja, and then we will be able to watch them squirm,» Ritter laughed in response, then sobered. «But this will just make Things that much worse for those Men the British won't take back. They will be like all the other _Amerikaner_, only angrier.»

«How many? Among those first several Barracks, from which we will be taking the Men to go to France?»

«At least eight, _mein General__.»_

«Pull their Records, so I can see what we'll be dealing with. I'd like to know ahead of Time if we'll be trying to contain an angry Commando or two.»

«I will do so, soonest,» Ritter assured his superior. «I believe there are none of such Men there; only regular Army and some RAF Pilots.»

«Pilots, you say?» Mannheim's attention was well caught now. «I had meant to find a Bondsman to be Rob's Copilot for me. Perhaps one of these will be suitable. We shall see, Rudi; we shall see.»

~oOo~

It was nearly lunchtime now, and Hogan desperately needed a break from the paperwork. He'd always had problems with the Brits' stuffy notions of proper protocol, but right then he was ready to lead a bombing mission himself, to take out Whitehall and all the paper-pushers contained therein. Especially if he could also drop a few on the House of Lords, since the three signatures he'd seen most often on his rejection forms contained the title "Lord." Not to mention the one "Lady."

And so it was with relief that he looked up at Mannheim's summons. "Come, Rob; it is time for lunch, and then there is an errand you must run. These reports and forms will be here tomorrow still."

"Ain't _that_ the truth!" the American groused, but he rose and headed for the door, shrugging into his coat. He totally missed the appraising look Mannheim sent his way as he placed his cap on his head with an unhappy sigh. Still, orders were orders, and his crush cap was _verboten._

They were joined in the outer office by _Kommandant_ Ritter and headed over to the officers' mess together. Unlike that morning, appetizing smells wafted upon the chill December air, bringing more than the usual number of officers seeking the source of the aromas. Not LeBeau's work, Hogan thought with a silent chuckle, but lunch would certainly be edible. And it did fulfill the promise made to his nose, he thought afterwards as he pushed his chair back slightly so he could safely tip it back a bit on the two rear legs. So contented was he that he nearly missed his superior's conversation concerning himself.

«…know where good quality Tattoos may be obtained locally? I will require a skilled Artist for the work I need done.» Mannheim, that was, Hogan realized as he zeroed in on their voices. The chair's front legs settled quietly to the floor, so as not to distract the two Germans. Weber, refilling his general's coffee cup, looked at Hogan, but kept his silence.

«I will ask after Lunch; then they can go into Town and get it done. I know that I, at least, will feel safer letting Hogan go out on his own after that.

«Won't you, Rob?»

«The Badge, my General?» Hogan asked quietly, having followed the conversation to its logical conclusion. «As a matter of fact, yes, I will. Someone might be able to take my Soldbuch away, but they can't remove that Tattoo without taking the Arm, and that would be kind of obvious. I'll be glad to get that done and over with.»

«Then you will go, right after this.» Mannheim's eyes gleamed, and he added, «Don't keep your Escort out too late afterwards; I would prefer you to be back in time for evening Appell, so you might eat tonight with your Men. You have not seen them all Day, and I believe that Newkirk and LeBeau will be leaving us soon for their homes.»

Now Hogan was confused. «But, General, I saw Newkirk's paperwork today. It'd been returned, like all the rest.»

«Not to worry, Rob,» Mannheim replied with a smirk. «If _he_ cooperates, he will be back in England by Christmas. Do not say anything to him yet, in case _my_ Plans fall through. But this is what I intend to accomplish, and the Englanders can just stuff it up their stodgy…» He paused, considering that what he'd intended to say wasn't in the least diplomatic and was not becoming his dignity as an officer and gentleman. He looked again at Hogan. «You, Rob, are a _terrible_ Influence on me. But finish now; you will have more Time to spend in Düsseldorf that way.»

_"Jawohl, mein General,"_ Hogan replied, swallowing the last of his now-tepid coffee and rising to his feet. «I am ready.»

Weber rose also. «I will find the Stabsfeldwebel, mein General.»

«Very good,» Mannheim concurred, pleased. «You may ask him for me, then, and arrange a Driver and Vehicle for Rob.

«You know what is required; come by my Office on your way out…No; you have the Badge; there on your sleeve. The Artist may use that for his master Copy. Have a pleasant Afternoon, Rob.» He rose also, returning to his own work and throwing Hogan out on his own.

He could still run, Rob thought briefly, but he quickly discarded the notion, knowing it was unworthy. He'd given his word; if he wouldn't break it to save his life, he surely wouldn't betray Mannheim's trust now. He'd worked too hard to earn it. With one last sigh, Robert Hogan turned for the door also, to meet his latest escort.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

General Friedrich Sebastian Mannheim returned to his office, sparing no further thought for his bondsman. More files would be waiting for his consideration, he knew: the Americans from Barracks 1 through 5, with repealed British citizenships. He strongly hoped that a suitable man could be found among them. They would be going to England soon, and Rob would be needing a copilot. The man would also have to be outfitted, if not as extravagantly as Hogan. The German grinned; perhaps he would let Hogan pay for some of that, also.

Hogan. Thinking of PAPA BEAR brought thoughts of his men, his Bear Cubs, to mind. A quick stab on his intercom brought Fräulein Doebrich to his office.

_"Jawohl, Mein General?"_ the woman asked, waiting attentively for instructions.

«Have a Guard sent to North Compound, Barrake 14, to escort the Englander Peter Newkirk and the Frenchman Louis LeBeau to me here,» he instructed. As ever, he appreciated the competence of this secretary, who needed no note-taking to remember her orders.

_"Zu Befehl, mein General,"_ she responded, then left with silent efficiency.

General Mannheim looked at the files before him, frowning. Not much choice here, he realized with a sigh. Out of the eight, five could be discarded immediately; they were all infantry, and there was only one officer among the lot. Of the remaining three, only one had had any experience in bombers, and that was as a waist gunner. Two fighter pilots to choose from, then. Well, he could look at those more closely later. If necessary, he would see what else was available in the camp.

Another sigh; then he picked up the phone. «Connect me with Generaloberst Grafner, bitte,Fräulein Doebrich.» He waited patiently while the connection was made, and his receptionist worked her way past Grafner's aides; then:

«General Grafner speaking.»

«Guten Tag, _Herr Generaloberst._ This is General Mannheim. I wonder if you could arrange some Aircraft for me…»

Mannheim was smiling as he set the phone down at last. He looked up at a knock on his door; perfect timing.

_«_Herr General_,_ the Prisoners you sent for are here,» Karlotte Doebrich announced, then stepped back to allow the two prisoners and their escort entry into the General's office.

He managed to hide his surprise when the Englander, Newkirk, actually come to attention and offered a salute, which he gravely returned. The Frenchman, LeBeau, did not, but that didn't surprise him terribly. He did not try to hide his small grin of amusement at their actions.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, gentlemen," he said, his voice soft and even, giving away nothing of his intentions. "Please be seated."

Again he paused until both had complied; then he looked at their escort. "That will be all for now; you may wait in the outer office." He promptly ignored the corporal, who withdrew as ordered, studying the two men seated before his desk. "As you are both no doubt aware, we are attempting to return you to your homes. You, LeBeau, being French, are soon to go…Provided.

"Newkirk, I wish you to look over this file and give me your opinion of the contents. Then we will have several matters to discuss."

It was thick, Newkirk saw as he accepted the folder being held out to him. _Very_ thick. And it had his name on it… Cautiously he opened it and began leafing through the forms within. His companion couldn't keep from looking over his shoulder. Suddenly the little Frenchman broke out in a stream of French, echoed by Newkirk's curses in English. As one, they both paused, looking at Mannheim in agitation.

"As you can see, Corporal Newkirk, we have been _trying_ to send you home. I have found a way around the blockage, I believe; it is my intention to see that _you,_ at least, are back in England by Christmas.

"However, that brings me to our second little problem."

"An' just what might that be, General, if you don't mind me askin'?" Newkirk was actually making an effort to be polite; Colonel Hogan was in this man's power, so he was not to be antagonized needlessly.

One side of the General's mouth quirked in response. "I believe you already suspect some of it: You two were Hogan's men. Some of what we now call the Bear's Cubs. It was only for Rob's sake that you were not tried and convicted for sabotage and espionage. The others all are American-born and so are automatically held, or are to be bondsmen. They will be easy to keep track of.

"You two, however, are not to be so held. Yet it does not seem reasonable just to turn you loose without taking some sort of precautions. Do you not agree?"

LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged unhappy looks. "You _do_ 'ave a point there, sir," Newkirk slowly agreed. "But just what sort o' 'precautions' did you 'ave in mind? Ah, sir?"

"There are some who would prefer none of you to be released, even as Bondsmen, but that hardly seems fair. So, the other Cubs are tattooed as Bonds and will have their chance for assignments outside the wire, like everyone else. If anything, I, personally, suspect that they will be more reliable than most. But for you two…

"I think I would prefer it if you accepted the tattoo, like all the rest. You _will_ be required to report monthly to a security control officer, to report your whereabouts. You will not be restricted in traveling any more than any others of your countrymen, but it might be a good idea to report in when you arrive at your destination. We will be keeping fairly close tabs on you, especially at first. Perhaps later these restrictions might be relaxed; I do not know right now."

LeBeau thought about it, quickly. He could see Peter drawing breath to protest and realized that this general had gone out of his way to have this discussion in private. He could have just had them held down and tattooed, or worse…which he still might, if Peter started arguing. "Then we will all be with our compatriots, with the same markings," the little Frenchman quickly said, quelling Newkirk's incipient outburst with a hand on one arm. "It will be a badge of honor, for _us."_

_That _thought stopped Newkirk with his mouth just opening to protest, and he looked at LeBeau in surprise. "Y'know, you 'ave a point there, mate," he said, his voice going thoughtful now. "I 'and't thought o' it that way. An' Colonel 'Ogan, 'e 'as one too, now, don't 'e?" He glanced at the German for confirmation.

"He does," Mannheim nodded. "In fact, he goes today for a second. _He_ will be carrying my family's coat of arms as a badge, so no one can mistake him. This he is in agreement with. You will not need to carry that, as you are to be fully freed."

"All right, then guv'nor…uh, General, sir," Newkirk quickly amended as LeBeau rolled his eyes. "I'll take that tattoo. When d'ye think we could be gettin' it done? Now?"

"I see no reason why not," Mannheim agreed, surprised that they had yielded so quickly. "The sooner it is done and healing well, the sooner you will be on your way home. You can be on a train for Paris in several days, LeBeau. And you, Corporal Newkirk, will be on the first plane-load of your countrymen, due to go at the end of the week. So I will call the infirmary and tell them to expect you, _ja?"_

"Well," Newkirk hesitated. "The Colonel, 'e told us about that _Doktor_ what did 'is…"

"That was in Berlin, not here," the German assured him, his eyes hard now. _"That _man is now on the Eastern Front, for unnecessary cruelty. They will not mistreat you here."

"They wouldn't dare," Le Beau muttered under his breath with a soft laugh, joined, to his amazement, by the general.

"No. They would not dare. But go. _I_ have work to do, unless you wish to be volunteered to assist? No? Very well, then; you are dismissed. Just tell your escort to take you to the infirmary." Mannheim reached for his phone, the interview clearly at an end. If only his day could be ended so easily.

Newkirk and LeBeau left, shutting the door behind themselves quietly.

Eventually, Mannheim pulled files from the next two barracks also, until he had six men with pilot qualifications to consider. Only one had flown bombers, true, but at least he had some sort of choice now. He had the men sent for and settled back to work, their files the only things marring the clear surface of his desk.

He studied them when they finally stood before him. Each man's file was open to show his picture, taken when he was first processed as a POW. Manheim shifted the files until each was before the man detailed upon its pages. Then he ignored the men to look over the files again. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and studied the men themselves once more.

Most withstood his gaze unflinchingly. One---the bomber pilot, _natürlich,_ glared at him with undisguised hatred. That, he could do without; there were better choices available, and this man, a Squadron Leader(1) Gamble, had already refused to be tattooed once. He had him returned to his barracks, making a notation on the man's file and setting it aside. The others stood quietly at attention, only their eyes moving to indicate their unease.

He nodded very slightly. "You men have been sorely disappointed, I see. You expected to be sent back to England with the men who were born citizens of that land. How did you feel, I wonder, when you learned of what the men you'd fought and bled for thought about you? When they turned their backs on you?" He paused, watching as several shifted slightly, and smiled a tight, grim smile before continuing. "Now you find that you will be no different than your fellow American-born prisoners. You will live out your lives subject to another's whims." He saw several glares at that statement and made careful note of those men, for they still had some spirit, some pride. "You will have the same choices as the others now: to sit out your lives in a prison camp, or to accept letting yourselves be tattooed with your numbers so that you may be assigned work outside your compound. To give your parole, your bond.

"There is an opportunity for one of you as a pilot. As a co-pilot, actually, as the pilot was chosen some time ago. You would be flying again, although for a German this time. I do not need a firm commitment right now, only an indication that you might wish to consider accepting this position."

One man, Senior Captain Lewis it was, could contain himself no longer. "I won't fly for no damned Kraut!" he snarled, barely refraining from spitting at the German sitting so arrogantly before him.

"Very well," Mannheim calmly responded. "You need not. You may, instead, be dismissed. Guards, remove him."

The others had shifted ever so slightly away from Lewis, made uneasy by his open antagonism. None of them wanted to be caught in the explosive backlash that they expected his rudeness to cause. Now they looked shocked.

Again Mannheim grinned coldly. "Come now, gentlemen. This is a job interview, not an interrogation session. You are entitled to your opinions, although the good senior captain _could_ have expressed his a bit more diplomatically."

That made them chuckle despite themselves, and Mannheim could feel the tension recede somewhat at last. He could feel them studying him carefully now, also. It was almost a pity he'd settled on Hogan as his pilot; the two blonds had good records, even if they showed less inclination to...no; he'd discovered that he _enjoyed_ matching verbal wits with his _Amerikaner_. He would grow bored with the others too easily, would take them too much for granted. Not good.

The third man was a rather nondescript individual, rather stocky, with mousy brown hair. Plain-faced, even, although he carried himself well. The last was tall and dark-haired, much like Hogan himself; perhaps a bit taller and a shade heavier in build, with similar lean, handsome features, but with startlingly blue eyes where Hogan had dark brown. Mannheim could feel himself smile at a wicked thought. He could have a matched set, although Hogan would no doubt find a way to exploit that for his own benefit. Plus, _this_ man would look just as good in the flight uniforms that the former colonel had designed for himself.

He looked down at the files one last time. "You are Captain Dirk Martins, _ja?_ You flew Hurricanes during the war. I believe that you will suit the position admirably. You will consider, _seriously_ consider, accepting the job. Do I make myself clear, Captain?"

Martins looked stunned. Mannheim turned to the others. "As for you three, I suspect that other General Officers will decide that they, too, require personal pilots, so you will probably find yourselves placed. You may return to your barracks; I wish to speak further with Captain Martins." He returned the salutes that they gave him, then turned his full attention back to Martins.

The American had sense enough to wait until the door closed behind the last of the other officers before objecting. "General, I'm a fighter pilot, not a...What type of aircraft would I be expected to fly, anyway?" His voice evened out as he got a grip on his panic.

"Sit down, Captain Martins. That is part of what must now be discussed." Mannheim waited patiently until the _Amerikaner_ complied. "It is a modified Heinkel bomber. It has two engines, and I do not expect you to be able to fly it without training first. The intended pilot has flown one once already; he is trained on multi-engine British bombers and flew Blenheims during the war. For your first actual flight, you will have a trained German co-pilot to talk you through the procedures and give you whatever help you might need. I am _not_ setting you up to fail, Martins."

"I haven't said I'd do it---or don't I have a choice?"

"You have a choice. I would prefer you to accept, but I will not force you. That would be a messy way to commit suicide, and my wife would never forgive me."

Despite himself, Martins chuckled at the German's droll comment. "How long do I have to think about this?" was his cautious query.

"Time is not limitless," Mannheim admitted, his eyes not quite as cold as they'd been. "You may take several days to consider. I need to leave for Paris and London after Christmas, and you will need some time to train first. Your pilot will be able to help with that; I will have you moved to his barracks to facilitate this. Do you have close friends in your current barracks?"

Time for caution again, Dirk thought, and shook his head. "Not really, sir. Most of the guys resented the fact that I was going to England---or, we all thought I would be. Then they seemed to feel---I guess superior is the best explanation---when the Brits repealed our citizenships."

"Very well, then. Pack your belongings; your guard will escort you to your new home. That will be all, Captain. Dismissed."

He wanted to protest. If he moved, everyone would assume that he'd accepted the job. But the General obviously had other things to concern himself with; the problems of a captive American officer would mean little, no doubt. With a sigh, Martins stood and saluted, then quietly accompanied his guard.

"Barracks Four," he said when the _Gefreiter_ escorting him stopped just inside the compound gates.

"I know. But you haf bes' do as _Herr General_ vishes," the man said before giving Martins a light shove in the right direction.

That was a warning to keep in mind, Martins thought glumly as he stuffed his meager belongings into a sack.

"Took th' job, eh?" someone sneered beyond his bunk.

He looked up to see a man he loathed watching him in disgust. "Not yet," Dirk drawled softly, knowing that this jerk wouldn't believe anything he said anyway. "I'm supposed to think about it for a couple of days. He's moving me anyway."

"Good riddance," the man muttered under his breath, but he made no further comments, due, no doubt, to the presence of the German _Gefreiter._

Martins just couldn't help but feel the same. He'd come close to punching the guy out several times already; only the thought of a month in the cooler for starting a fight had stopped him. If nothing else came of this "job offer," at least he was getting away from Black. He stood and looked around, nodding to the _Gefreiter_ that he was ready.

_"Komm mit,"_ the man ordered, but he didn't sound quite so harsh as he had earlier. He led the way deeper into the compound, arriving finally at the building labeled _Barrake_ 14. He opened the door and stood back, allowing the Captain to precede him, but following closely behind.

"Hey, hi, Hermann," a young sandy-haired sergeant called out a greeting. "Who's this?"

The _Gefreiter_ scowled briefly, then sighed. These..."Bear's Cubs"...were never going to speak to him with respect. At least this one, the simple one, meant no ill by it. Not like that smart-mouthed _Englander._ "Thiss iss Kapitan Martins, Karter. He iss to be liffing _hier_ in. Perhaps he vill _mit_ _dein_ _Oberst gefliegen._ Find him a bunk."

_"Jawohl, Hermann,"_ Carter answered, his interest piqued. He turned to their new companion, a big smile on his face. "Hi, there, Captain. I'm Carter; welcome to Barracks 14. That's Sergeant Wilson; he's our medic. Most of the guys are out...well, not _out_ out, but..."

Martins looked at this young tech sergeant in numb surprise as the man rambled on and on. Who _were_ these people being talked about? Finally, someone else noticed and gave a laugh, then called out: _"Carter!"_

"Huh? Oh, sorry," he said, looking first surprised, then somewhat shamefaced. "I get kinda carried away, sir. Just stop me if I get going.

"There's a bunk down here you can have. I'm afraid we don't have any rooms open right now. The Colonel says that's what happens when you don't call ahead for reservations ... sorry."

Dirk went in and set his bag down, quietly spreading the mattress out and laying out his blankets. He wondered what that guard...Hermann...had said to these men, and wondered how they would treat him if they found out that the Jerries had offered him a job flying for them. What would they say if he took the job? He stretched out on the bunk to try to puzzle this out, courteously ignored by his new barracks-mates until such time as he would choose to rejoin them.

He had just drifted off to sleep when a rowdy commotion at the front end of the building caused him to look around, bleary-eyed.

"'Ere, now; 'oo's this, then?"

"That's Captain Martins, Newkirk," Carter started cheerfully. "Hermann says that he may be flying with the Colonel."

"Well, I would make him a cake as a welcome-in," LeBeau said, a bit unhappily, "but I 'ave nothing to bake it with. It is not like the old days." The little Frenchman sounded resigned at this state of affairs, just wistful for days gone by. Perhaps before the war.

Martins thought of his own now-unobtainable plans for the future, but pulled a smile up from somewhere at the latest round of introductions.

"What'd ye fly, mate? Oh, 'scuse me, sir; I'm Peter Newkirk, an' this 'ere's Louis LeBeau. We was in Stalag 13 before this."

"I flew Hurricanes, Corporal," Martins replied, finding himself set at ease by these men. But they were turning their attention to the two latecomers.

"Hey, Peter? What'd the general want with you an' Louis?" Carter asked eagerly, rather like a puppy, Dirk thought.

"Ol' General Mannheim?" Newkirk chuckled and pulled his right sleeve up. "'E's tryin' t' get me 'ome for Christmas, 'e says. An' we each got one o' these, like th' rest o' you blokes."

"They're supposed to be turning all the French and English loose," a major that Dirk hadn't met yet protested.

"'E says 'e will," the Cockney continued unperturbed. "They can't just turn us loose like them, though. They want t' know where we're at most times, an' I don't really blame 'em, now; d'you?"

"No, I suppose not," the major laughed back, then noticed the blank look of confusion on the new captain's face. "Here, let me explain," he said, still laughing. "You're bunking in with the luckiest bunch of guys there ever was. They're _known_ saboteurs and spies, and they weren't even tried, never mind shot or hung. Their CO took all the blame, and even _he_ wasn't shot."

"'E was supposed t' be, though," Newkirk was sober now, for this was a serious matter to all of them. "'E was known as PAPA BEAR during the war---yeah, I see you've 'eard o' _him._ But th' general---General Mannheim, as is over gettin' all of us settled---'e didn't want that t' 'appen, so 'e took th' colonel as a bondsman. So _we_ don't badmouth 'im, nor give 'im a 'ard time."

"I see...I think," Martins slowly responded. And maybe he would, once he'd had time to assimilate everything. At least it sounded like these men wouldn't make his life hell if he took that job offer. He'd have to give it some serious thought after all.

*******

There was a guard waiting outside the _Kommandantur_ as promised, a young private in, oh, his early twenties, Hogan guessed. He had a car waiting, too, so Hogan calmly climbed in. The man looked over at him and seemed a bit unhappy.

"What's wrong?" Hogan asked, hoping it wouldn't prove to be something major.

_"Ich spreche keine Englische,"_ the guard admitted, sounding like this was a horrible shortcoming on his part.

«That's okay,» Hogan responded, easily switching languages. _"Ich spreche Deutsche. Wie hießen Sie?"_

It took him totally by surprise. _"Heine,"_ he blurted, then caught himself. _"Ich heiße Heine Jäger, Soldat, und du bist Hogan, ja?"_

«That's right,» Hogan answered, totally at ease. «We're supposed to find a good Tattoo Artist. You know any?"»

«Well, yes,» the guard cautiously replied, realizing that he was totally out of control of this situation and wondering when that had happened.

«Relax; I'm not going to get you into Trouble,» Hogan laughed kindly. «I promise.»

********

When would he learn to keep his big mouth shut and not make promises he couldn't keep, Hogan wondered as the local police shut the cell door with a resounding clang. General Mannheim would kill him...maybe even literally.

They had driven into town...Dusseldorf, Hogan saw. He'd been here during the war, but not often; it had been too far from Stalag 13 to be in easy range. Heine had driven very cautiously, for the roads were still icy from the latest storm. He'd known the locations of two places that did tattoos, but he had steered Hogan towards a run-down place on the outskirts of town, near what had once been a large factory.

He hadn't objected, for he knew only too well that exceptional talent could be found in the unlikeliest of places. Inside, he'd been pleased to see that it was very clean, with the equipment kept in sterilizing solutions between customers.

The artist had had no problems working with an American bondsman; he'd brought out his design book, and they'd decided which form of chain would look best with this badge design. He'd proved to have a light touch with his needles, and, in Hogan's opinion, had done an outstanding job. He had tipped the artist very well for his effort, too.

No; the trouble had started when they had gone to the Hauserhoff for supper. There had been a large crowd, and Hogan's uniform had been conspicuous in its uniqueness. They had had to wait at the bar for a table, and there had been several nasty comments made, which the two men from Stalag 16 had carefully ignored. They had finally gotten a table and, eventually, their meals. Not the best Hogan had ever had, not by a long shot, but it was a change from camp food. Then they'd left, after having only one beer each during their meal.

About seven or eight men had been waiting for them near their car, lurking in the shadows. Hogan, having been lulled into a sense of false security, hadn't seen them until it'd been too late. Poor Heine hadn't been trained for this type of fighting, although he'd done his best. If there had been fewer, he might have been able to handle them.

As a bondsman, Hogan knew that he was forbidden to strike a German unless he was acting as a bodyguard for his superior. He wasn't about to just stand by, though, while these toughs took his escort apart.

Most of their attackers were down, incapacitated, when the local police finally arrived. Hogan saw them and stopped himself, but Heine, less experienced, had struck out when he felt a strong hand settle on his shoulder. _That_ cop would recover, although he'd hurt while eating for some time to come.

But now they were here in jail, Hogan back in manacles once more. General Mannheim was gonna kill him...if that police captain didn't, first. He watched the man coming towards his cell, a length of heavy hose in his hands, and sighed. It had been quite some time since he'd had to absorb that kind of abuse, and he'd hoped to avoid any more.

«Captain, meaning no disrespect, but you'd better hold off on that until my Superior talks to you. A little delay now could mean a lot to you later on.» He watched the ugly gleam of anticipation in the man's eyes grow uglier.

«Insolent American _Pig!_»the captain snarled, starting to unlock the cell door. In the next cell, Hogan could hear his escort starting to yell threats of what would happen when his general heard about his; the police captain just looked meaner.

«SoldatJäger, shut up!» Hogan snapped in his best _Offizier_ voice. «You're not helping; just making him madder!» He turned his attention back to the captain, who'd nearly reached him. «Seriously, sir, you might want to wait. One of two things're gonna happen when General Mannheim gets here: Either he's gonna shoot me, or he'll say, 'Well done, Rob.' If he's gonna shoot me, he'll probably let you beat me first. If it's the second, he'll check me for Damage, and we both know that Bruises from a Rubber Hose don't look anything like those from Fists.

«He's already sent two Men to the Eastern Front, that I know of, for roughing me up.» Hogan stood motionless, holding his breath. The police captain had raised the hose, ready to bring it down in a vicious backhanded blow, but paused at Hogan's last words.

«You lie!» the German snarled, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes now.

«Sir, that would be one of the stupider things that I could do.» Hogan put every trace of sincerity that he could muster into his voice. «It's too easy for you to check. And I know you _will_ check, too. So I'll tell you about them now, and you'll see.

«The first was just a Military Police Feldwebel---actually, a Guard down in the Lockup in Berlin. He got sent for actually beating me, because I objected to him holding back the Supper my General had had sent to me. The second was a Doktor at the Hospital, where I went to get my Tattoo; he just had his Goo...Orderlies, I guess they were...rough me up before my Escort could get in to stop them.»

«You _have_ no Number!» the man cried, ready to strike again, in anger this time.

«Yes I do; it's on the back of my left Shoulder. Says so on my Papers! » Hogan nearly yelled this, his voice almost at the top of its register, trying to prevent the blow from falling, but it landed heavily across the side of his face, knocking him off his feet and into the wall. Twice more the hose struck whatever portion of him was uppermost; then there were voices yelling orders, furious-sounding, and hands were helping him up onto the bunk.

"Rob, are you all right?" It was Weber, Hogan saw, and if Karl was here, then...He looked around in time to see two military police troopers hauling the police captain up from the floor. A thoroughly enraged Mannheim stood over the now-cowed policeman. Hogan didn't even have the energy to grin. And then the General turned to face _him._

"What did you do this time, Hogan?" he demanded, his voice frosty.

«Sir, we were attacked as we were returning to our Car after Dinner. There were perhaps eight Men, too many for Soldat Jäger to handle by himself, though he did try. I felt it was my Duty to keep them off his Back while he defended us.

«We had them all down by the time the Police arrived; I saw the Officers around us and stopped. Soldat Jäger did not see them, I think, so when one grabbed his Shoulder from behind, he turned and hit the Officer. They overpowered us and brought us here to lock us up and wait for you. Sir.» Hogan made that report as clear and free of blame as he could. Accusing the cops of needless roughness would be counterproductive, and Mannheim was no fool.

«And this little Scene that I walked in on?» Mannheim was still _really _mad, Hogan thought as he carefully chose his words.

«I'm not sure why the Captain thought he needed to hit me, sir. I've been watching my Mouth. I tried to tell him, with all due Respect, that he should, perhaps, wait until he'd spoken to you before he began using that Hose he had with him. Seemed like he was gonna wait; then he decided I was lying to him, and he lit into me. He'd just started when you got here, _Herr General._»

«They were drunk,» the Captain, groggy but on his feet now, accused. «They attacked my Men.»

«We'd only had one Beer each, _with_ Dinner, sir. It takes a lot more than that to get me drunk,» Hogan snapped back, angered now himself. «And if _I'd_attacked his Men, they'd be in the Hospital with the Scum that jumped us. You'll only find one Cop there, the Guy Heine hit. I think he's got a busted Jaw, 'cause Heine hit him with a Chair Leg someone'd tried to use on him. »

«I tell you, this American Pig attacked my Men!» The police captain, a civilian, was nearly foaming at the mouth now and clearly beyond caution.

Mannheim looked at him coldly. «Hogan may do many things he should not, but to me does not lie. _You_ will regret assaulting my Man.»

«I have Friends in High Places!» the captain blustered. «You have no Hold over me; I will see you pay for your Interference!»

Hogan and Weber exchanged grim smiles.

"Two days, I'd say," Hogan commented cryptically. "D'you think you can take these manacles off, now?"

"A week at the most, and no, I won't wager on a sure thing," Karl responded. "Hold still; your wrists are bleeding, Rob. And the right one...it does not look good."

"It doesn't _feel_ good. I think I hit the edge of the bunk with it after he knocked me into the wall. On the way down." He sat still as the younger German carefully unlocked the handcuffs, but he couldn't hold back his cry of pain as his left arm swung free. He hadn't noticed _that_ before; no doubt the pain slicing into his skull from the blow to his face had masked it. It felt like it was dislocated. "Uh, d'y' think we c'n go to' th' hospital, Gen'ral?" he slurred, the facial swelling starting to make speech difficult. "Please?"

*********

The doctor looked over the bondsman quickly, then up in icy anger at the two Germans with him. «Which one of you did this to him?» he demanded, ready to...he did not know what, exactly, he would do, but whoever was responsible for beating this prisoner would pay. Too many had ignored such things, for too long.

Mannheim looked at him in shock. «_We_ did not do this!» he snapped, outraged that anyone would think that he would treat one of _his_ people like this. «That _verdammt_ Captain of Police did it, and Rob had done nothing to deserve such Treatment!»

The doctor got such a look of disgust on his face at the mention of the police that it told the others no further explanations were necessary.

_"Herr Doktor?"_ Hogan called, ready to black out by this time. "D' y' think you could...?"

*********

«...Wrists were lacerated by the Handcuffs, and the right Wrist was broken in two Places. The left Shoulder _was_ dislocated, as you suspected, but I have already reduced the Joint. I can only bandage the broken Wrist in a soft Splint, due to the Lacerations, but those should heal with no Problems. Fortunately the Bones in his Face were not fractured, although the Swelling is severe. What was used?»

«Rubber Hose,» Hogan answered for himself, drawing everyone's attention back to him. «Shoulder was from hittin' th' Wall, an' a second Hit from th' Hose. Wrist was broken from fallin' onto th' Edge of the Bunk, I think.»

«You're lucky you didn't break your thick Skull,» Mannheim snorted in disgust, but he looked pleased to see his man awake again. «We will get you back to Camp and into a Bed.»

But the doctor was shaking his head. «No; I wish to keep him here, at least Overnight. Will this be a Problem? Will he need to be guarded?»

Hogan grinned at the general's grimace of distaste. «He will not need a Guard to keep him here,» Mannheim answered, «only to protect him from your local Citizenry.»

«Yeah, Herr Doktor_,» _Hogan agreed. «Heine and I---he's the Camp Guard who escorted me into Town earlier---we've already sent eight Men here who attacked us around Suppertime. What's happened to them, anyway?»

«They were treated and released,» the doctor responded absently as he wrote a few more lines on the American's chart. «Why?»

«I wasn't done with them yet,» Hogan answered, only half-joking.

«Do not worry,» Mannheim assured in all seriousness. «I will get their Names from the hospital Records. They _will_ be dealt with.»

«Yes; well, I will get Someone to bring your Bondsman to a Room,» the doctor interrupted, for this did _not_ sound good for those other men.

«Do that, _Herr Doktor,_ if you would. I need to return to Camp; some people are waiting for me there. I will send someone to you, Rob, so you may rest easy tonight.»

_"Danke, mein General," _Hogan answered, and no one could doubt the sincerity in his voice. _"Danke schön."_

*********

«So what was it this Time, _mein General?» _Ritter asked with a laugh when Mannheim rejoined the men he had so precipitously left earlier. «Passing counterfeit Bills?»

_"Nein, Rudi,"_ Mannheim laughed in spite of his anger. «As usual, it was not Hogan's Fault; at least, he didn't _start_ the Trouble.» The faces of his audience darkened with anger as he told the tale, for they had all met this exceptional _Amerikaner _and had found himto be a good companion. «But I think that Captain of Police meant to beat him to Death,» he finished his explanation.

«That is a bad Precedent to set, Sebastian,» General Albert Burkhalter muttered, his eyes reflecting his now somber mood.

«Oh, _ja,_ a very bad Precedent. And then he had the Nerve to threaten me---_me!---_with his 'Friends in high Places,' and said I had no Hold over him! The Insolence of that Scum! I'll show _him_ who has Influence over whom.» The general was beyond mere anger now; he was out for vengeance, for his honor had been attacked by this..._person. «_Tomorrow I will have him conscripted into Military Service; _then_ we shall see who has Power over whom. He is fat, full-fleshed. No doubt he managed to avoid doing his Duty to the Fatherland during the War, but he will not escape _me__.»_

They laughed, but not at Mannheim. Hogan was his in a way these men could all understand: More than a mere victory trophy, for he had conquered the man's very heart and soul. No one would be allowed to trample over this prize with impunity, especially when he had not deserved that punishment. All agreed that this American had been showing surprising depths lately.

Finally Mannheim calmed down. «Eh, my friends, I am sorry to have wasted so much of our Time carrying on like a Child over _one_ Man, when there are so many in dire straits. I have been looking into the matter of the POWs being held in Italy and have discovered that the Condition of the Men brought into Germany by Major Knust's column was _not_ an isolated Incident. Abuse and Neglect are rampant in the Camps run by the _Fascisti,_ and they show no Inclination to release the Men they are holding. We will quite literally have to capture those Camps if we wish to get those Men out.»

«Do we wish to open that particular Can of Worms now?» _General-leutnant _Heinz Kimmich of the _Heer _asked. «This could lead to severe Fighting in the Mountains to the South.»

«Better now than later,» Field Marshall Berrer replied. «If we wait, it may occur to them that we want those Men. And we will have to deal with the _Fascisti_ eventually; Mussolini is acting more and more erratic, much as Hitler did. Better that _we_ pick the Time and Place, _nein?»_

«Better for those Men that we get them out of there and back to Germany soon,» Mannheim flatly answered. «More die from Disease and Starvation every day. _Our_ troops captured most of them, not the Italians. We are honor-bound to see to them.»

«Just so,» Berrer agreed. «And I believe that Major Knust has shown us the Way. I will speak to Field Marshall Rommel, but I am sure that he will cooperate in this. More and more Units of his _Afrika Korp_ are being assigned to rotate home, replacing Units here in Europe so that those fresh Troops can reinforce our eastern Border. Most convoy their Equipment up through Italy in large Columns.

«I propose that we assign them different Routes, taking the various POW Camps they will pass as they head north. We will send the Men they - we could almost say 'liberate,' couldn't we? We will send those Men north in Truck Convoys where available; airlift them out if we have to. It will be too hard to cover what we are doing if we send them by Train.»

There were many nods and murmurs of agreement among the assembled men; only Mannheim himself looked doubtful.

«That could still take too long,» was his ultimate comment. Again silence fell while they thought; then, «What if I were to take a second Division down from the North at the same Time? Those Men could be shipped by Rail, through the Bremner Pass, which _we_ control. We could meet somewhere in the Middle, _and_ take care of _Il Duce_ and his Cronies while we are there.»

«You are ambitious, » _General Major_ Biffer criticized with a scowl.

«I am realistic,» Mannheim responded. "Do you imagine that the Italians will let us take these Men away from them and do nothing? They will attack; better we strike presumptively, while we have the Advantage of Surprise. And also in that Vein, the sooner we go, the better. Immediately after Christmas, I would recommend. »

«And do you want anything else?» Biffer growled, intending sarcasm, but Mannheim had the bit in his teeth now.

_«Ja. _Several Units of Paratroopers to drop in just before our main Groups arrive. They can cut the Phone Lines and take out any stray Sentries so our Prizes are not slaughtered before we can reach them, and so Warning does not go out to the rest of Italy.

«As long as our Men do not molest them, the local Peasants will do nothing; most hate the _Fascisti _almost as much as the rabid Nazis were hated here. I do not believe that they will interfere.»

«Very well, then,» Berrer proclaimed, ending further discussion. «I will contact Field Marshall Rommel as soon as I get back to Berlin and arrange Matters there. Will you be flying down to Italy, Sebastian?»

«I'm afraid not,» Mannheim admitted with a rueful sigh. «My Pilot has a broken Wrist and a dislocated Shoulder, courtesy of the Dusseldorf Police.»

(1) Equivalent of a Major.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Robert Hogan sighed and leaned back against the command car. He'd never been in a major ground action---their commando and sabotage raids from Stalag 13 didn't count---and he found it a strange world indeed. Men everywhere, for one thing, most already not knowing what to make of him. Oh, yes, the men…

There was a _Heer_ division assigned to this action, with more available if they were needed. Several units of paratroopers were also on call, although no one saw _them_ until after a camp was taken. But the soldiers ... Hogan had seen a lot of German soldiers since he'd been shot down, but few moved or carried themselves the way these men did. At least, not any more, he corrected himself. A year or so ago, they wouldn't have been wearing _Wehrmacht_ gray; they'd have been in black uniforms, with _sig-_runelightning flashes on their collars. He'd tried to tell himself that he was just imagining things, but then he'd seen that _Oberleutnant._

His back crawled and he spun, reaching for the Luger he now wore belted for a left-handed draw. His right wrist _was_ healing well, but it still couldn't take the recoil of a pistol---He stopped himself and straightened, a tight smile thinning his lips as he watched that officer approach him, oh so casually. He'd wondered if he'd been noticed or remembered. Obviously, yes.

«Guten tag_, _Herr Oberleutnant_, »_ he called; his voice lowered so as not to carry beyond the two of them. «Or should that be _Obersturmführer__?»_

The man smiled back just as grimly, reminding Hogan of two dogs checking each other out with raised hackles. «It is _Oberleutnant…_now. But the last time I saw _you,_ you were a _Hauptsturmführer…_Hoganmüller, was it not? »

"You have a good memory, lieutenant," Hogan laughed, switching to English as an experiment. But the man smiled at him still.

"I also speak French and Polish. Vould you care to try those next?"

"No; English is fine; rank-titles are less cumbersome---or embarrassing. I'm Rob Hogan, bond to General Mannheim. You _were_ a second lieutenant; congratulations on the promotion, and on surviving. Your men look good; in fact, they give you away. How'd you manage to keep in the High Command's good graces, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We vere not guilty ov the atrocities of others; I vould not allow my men such license. They grumbled then, but they obeyed; they thank me now. I see you understand vhat I am talking about. My brother-officers at the time chose to see things my vay and controlled their men also; I beliefe ve are among the few SS divisions to survife the purge and trials intact. But, forgive me, my manners are lapsing. I am Ober… _Lieutenant_ Müller. Is the _Herr General_ available? I need to speak to him about something my men found in the paperwork; the major there said you vould know vhere he is."

"Yeah." Hogan paused and looked around a moment. "Yeah; he's over there, _Herr Oberleutnant, _in the communications building. Want me to run interference for you? He's pretty steamed over what we found here."

"You are not vary ov his temper?" Müller fought back a chuckle at the notion of a captive protecting him.

"Nah. Worst he'll do to me is order a firing squad. You, he could send east."

"I haf been there; it vas…unpleasant, shall ve say?" The lieutenant wasn't laughing now, for, truthfully, the Eastern Front had been a nightmare that he never wanted to have to live through again.

"Yeah; I'd heard something along those lines. C'mon; I'll let the General know you need to talk to him." He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and walked to the comms building. He could hear Mannheim inside, not _quite_ yelling about something. He went in and intentionally did not come to attention, instead tipping his cap to the back of his head, much as he had used to wear his old crush cap.

Mannheim saw the soldier enter with poor military courtesy. He was about to explode when the cap's position caught his eye, making him realize just who was there. All his anger vanished as if it had never been. "Rob, what is it?" he asked, his voice calm and level once more, to the utter amazement of those around him.

_"Mein General, Oberleutnant _Müller needs to talk to you about something his men found in some paperwork. It won't be good, whatever it is." He kept his voice pitched so few others could hear what he said. "I doubt he'd bother you if it wasn't urgent, sir."

"No, he would not," the general agreed in a low growl. "Where is…what do you think of him, Rob?"

"Hmm. Hadn't thought much about that. I'd say he's a good man, and a damn fine officer. His men jump when he says, but not out of fear. They respect him. Plus, he's still alive. Keep him, _mein General;_ don't throw that one back." Rob's eyes sparkled with laughter for a moment, then grew serious again. "He's waiting just outside, sir."

"Very well; bring him in, and we will see what else is rotten here."

_"Zu Befehl, mein General,"_ Hogan responded, coming to attention, then turning to the door. "The general will see you, sir," he told the lieutenant who waited just outside the door, his eyes wide with surprise that he couldn't hide. Müller had heard his superior yelling; he'd seen the way this bondsman had gone in. Then he'd seen a miracle happen, as if a sedative had been given. But _he_ wasn't going to stack the deck against himself. He entered, coming to attention and saluting.

«At ease, _Oberleutnant__.» _Mannheim looked him over once, carefully, nodding to himself. He'd seen the records of the men he'd been given for his assault column, and those of the other three northern groups. He knew what this man had been. But Rob approved of him; that said much, for his _Amerikaner_ bondsman was a good judge of men. He would see. «Your men found…what?»

«Herr General, we were going through the Camp Offices as directed. The Camp Books kept there were clean…_too_ clean; so we searched further. Some of my Men are quite skilled at ferreting out hidden Contraband. We found a second Set of Books; those led us to suspect the Existence of a third Set, because of what they do _not_ say. We will find those, also.

«But that second Set of Books shows that several Groups of Prisoners were sent 'elsewhere,' for some unknown, or at least unstated, Reason. They show many more Prisoner Deaths than were originally indicated, and there are perhaps fifteen Allied Nurses who are missing---_female_ Nurses, Herr General_.»_ He braced himself, waiting for the coming explosion.

«There are no Women here,» Mannheim carefully stated the obvious.

_«__Ja, Herr General._There are none. But there should be.» Somehow Müller managed to keep his own anger under control, but it could still be heard in his voice. Germany's honor was at stake here now. Bad enough, the neglect and abuse the male prisoners had suffered at the hands of these guards, but _women…!_ They had all surrendered, expecting at least minimally decent treatment. If what he suspected had actually been done with them, blood would flow. In rivers.

_«Find_ them, _Oberleutnant.__» _General Mannheim's voice was still calm and quiet, but it was all that Müller could do to keep from cringing before the rage burning in those blue eyes. "I don't care what it takes, or what you and your Men have to do. _**I want them found**__._ Do I make myself clear, _Oberleutnant?__»_

_«__Jawohl, Herr General._Perfectly clear. They will be found.» Again Müller came to attention and saluted, then left. Oh, yes, he understood. He and his men now had _carte blanche;_ as long as they got results, anything would be excused. The unstated dire consequences of failure were also clearly understood.

He would not fail.

Thank God that _Amerikaner_ had gone in first.

Hogan went back out to the small patch of shade that he'd found. He'd been ordered to rest, and so he would. Mannheim was too upset today to play games with. He couldn't blame him, either. This place…

Italy was a relatively poor country, the common folk eking out a hand-to-mouth living farming the rocky soil. The war had further impoverished them, so it was no wonder the prisoners were being fed substandard rations; there weren't even any necessities to spare, never mind luxuries. Hogan could understand that; Germany hadn't spent any more than absolutely necessary on idle POWs, either.

The first six or seven camps and satellite work camps they'd cleared out had been understandably spare. The prisoners there had been lean, but reasonably healthy, all things considered, and their shelter had been adequate, if barely so. Most could be sent back to their native countries as soon as their paperwork was completed.

Then they had come here.

There had been several camps in the area surrounding Turin, and Mannheim had decided to hit the largest first. To say that it had been a shock was an understatement. It had been raining, and the barracks' roofs had resembled sieves more than roofs. Skeletally thin men had huddled in the driest areas they could find, shivering in rags that had barely covered them. They'd been filthy; easily a third had been coughing in the early stages of pneumonia, or running fevers from infected sores, sores that could only have resulted from beatings and other abuse. The guards, though, had been fat, their uniforms immaculate.

There had been no heat in the prisoners' barracks, and no medical supplies in the locked and deserted infirmary. But the cellar of the commandant's large, elegant villa, just outside the main compound, had been filled with coal; fine food and rare vintages had overflowed the larder. Exquisite antiques had furnished the large, luxurious rooms.

As for the commandant himself, Hogan could only describe him as a round, cowardly bully. His piggish little eyes had been wide with terror beneath greasy curls of blue-black hair; he'd fairly stunk with his fear. Now he waited in his own cells, along with his officers, for Mannheim to decide what to do to…uh, _with_ him, Hogan corrected himself with a grimace. This place looked and felt too much like a concentration camp.

Three hours had passed since four squads of _Oberleutnant _Müller's men had left for the city of Turin. Hogan tried to feel sorry for the local inhabitants when those men found their quarry, but he just couldn't find it in himself, not after hearing what one of the youngest guards had confessed overhearing the commandant say to someone on the telephone.

He hated this country. But at least it had stopped raining, and they could use railcars to send these poor blighters out of here and into decent care in Germany. He shuddered to think that it would probably take another month to clear out this mess, before they would be able to go home.

What a concept. Germany, as "home." It was the only home he could have now, and it probably wouldn't be all that bad, he finally admitted to himself. The countryside was beautiful, like no other place he'd ever seen before, and, generally speaking, Hogan had found most of the people to be warm and generous when you weren't The Enemy.

And then there was Frau Mannheim.

They had managed to squeeze in a quick visit on the way to Italy, arriving at the general's country home at night on Christmas Eve. Mannheim hadn't called ahead, not wanting to disappoint his wife if they couldn't make it after all. Anna, Frau Mannheim, had cried with true joy to be in her husband's arms, and apparently she'd heard all about Hogan, for she'd greeted him by name, to the general's beaming approval.

Of necessity, it had been a very short visit, and Hogan had found himself looking forward to longer ones, for he'd found the Mannheims' children - an adorable little pixie of a 4-year-old girl and a 6-year-old boy - particularly endearing. They'd all attended Midnight Mass, the Mannheims being Catholic, as was Rob himself. Then, after a four-hour nap, they'd been gone again.

To this hellhole of a country. Merry Christmas, indeed, he snorted sourly to himself, then looked up at the roar of trucks coming in through the camp gates. He could guess what their cargo was when they headed straight for the hospital tents. Sure enough, women clad in scanty rags were helped out, the battle-hardened troops showing unusual solicitude toward their charges. The general was conspicuous by his absence, and it was just as well, Hogan thought as he felt his own anger rise again. Those poor nurses didn't need to be exposed to an enraged Mannheim, even if they themselves weren't the true cause.

But Mannheim would need a report, so the American levered himself to his feet and headed toward the hospital tents and their newest patients.

A cordon of guards had appeared around the area as if by magic. Almost he was stopped, but the burly _soldat_ stepped back at the barked command of his _Obergefreiter,_ though he did so with obviously great reluctance. Hogan nodded to the man, acknowledging his concern, and passed quietly into the closed triage tent.

The women clung to their rescuers, not wanting to let the doctors or nurses---all, unfortunately, male---anywhere near them. It took the men a few moments to notice that the blonds among them were more quickly accepted than the dark-haired ones. Hogan saw this too and hung back, glad when he saw _Leutnant_ Weber make his own way into the tent. "Karl, glad you're here," he called, carefully using English. It drew the surprised gazes of several of the calmer girls to him. "The ladies are understandably leery of all dark-haired guys right now; why don't you see what you can learn for _unser General?_ I'm just gonna keep my distance over here."

"All right, Rob," the young German agreed, appalled at the condition the nurses were in. Then the oddest thing happened: one frail-looking girl, nearly a solid mass of bruises, practically threw herself at the young man, away from the nurse who had been trying to get her into a curtained-off "room" away from the others. Afterwards, they could only guess that she had seen Weber as "authority" and had been appealing to him for rescue.

Karl saw her coming and threw an arm up to protect his face, thinking she was attacking him. Instead, she slipped into the circle of his arm and clung to him like a limpet, trembling violently, her face buried against his chest and shoulder. His reaction, quite naturally, was to draw his arms around her protectively, and that was how General Mannheim found them when he walked in two breaths later. Weber threw a frantic, near-panicked look at his superior, who'd raised both eyebrows in shock, then grinned when the girl refused to let go of his aide.

Speaking English and allowing a noticeable German accent through, he addressed Weber. "It vould zeem dhat you haf a lady to protekt, _Leutnant_ Veber. I make her yoor perzonal charge, _versteht'? _You vill be akkoundable for her zafety."

_"Ja-jawohl, mein General,"_ Weber stammered back, startled. He knew that Mannheim's English was better than that, with barely a trace of an accent to be heard. He usually sounded more British than anything.

But the ruse seemed to be working, for the young woman was relaxing somewhat, her trembling easing as she burst into relieved tears.

_"Herr Leutnant,_ vould you bring the lady into the treatment room now?" the nurse requested, sounding as if he would rather have made it a demand. Obviously, only the general's presence stayed him.

"Well, that ought to make things interesting," Hogan muttered as he moved next to Mannheim. "What do we do with them now? We can't haul them all through Italy, and none of the camps are set up to handle them."

"I truly don't know, Rob," Mannheim muttered back, his irritation barely masked. "We hadn't thought of this, although we should have. I hesitate to send them to one of the women's camps; they are…not suitable now, and I doubt that they ever were."

«General Mannheim? If I may intrude with a Suggestion?»

Both Mannheim and Hogan turned in surprise to find _Oberleutnant_ Müller standing there uncertainly.

«Suggestions are welcome, _Oberleutnant,»_ Mannheim responded quietly, wondering what this young officer had in mind.

«A Friend of mine has been made Kommandant of a small Stalag in Silesia. It is a fairly new Camp; he is former Waffen-SS like myself, _Herr General._ I believe that he can be trusted completely to see to these Women, to care for and protect them. His Men would never dare to molest them. »

«He was _Infanterie?»_

"No, _Herr General._ Panzers; the 384th. His _Englisch_ is not so good as yours, but he has…attached…some American-born _Kommandos_ to himself. They are very loyal…» He trailed off as a wide smile crossed Mannheim's face, even lighting his eyes.

«This Friend, his Name wouldn't happen to be Dekker by any chance, would it?» the general asked, trying to keep his laughter from his voice.

«Why, yes, _Herr General,»_ Müller responded, surprised. «You know of him?»

«I have met him and worked with him. And I have met his 'Hounds.' They are as remarkable, in their way, as my own Bondsman.» Mannheim looked happy now. «Dekker's Camp will do very well. Rob, call them and tell them to ready a place for female Nurses. They will be sent to him as soon as they clear Medical, along with any others we might find.

«Good work, _**Hauptmann**_ Müller.» Then he was gone, leaving a surprised and pleased newly promoted captain behind.

Eventually the mess around Turin was cleared up, and the nurses were sent north into Germany for recovery and safekeeping---all save one. Second Lieutenant Carrie MacDonald refused to be parted from _Leutnant_ Weber. The one time they tried, she went into such hysterics that the doctors feared for her health and sanity, so Mannheim finally accepted the fact that he now had one more "retainer" in his train. _Oberleutnant_ Müller's men were as protective of her as was Weber, so she quickly relaxed and was soon helping the German medical staff during daylight hours. After dark, though, she refused to leave Weber's quarters unless he himself was with her. For his part, Weber bore the men's teasing with good will, but it was easy to see that he was falling in love with the girl.

To keep her company, Mannheim had some German nurses brought in to help, although that created problems of its own.

Slowly but surely, the four northern columns worked their way south, clearing out main and satellite camps. Fortunately, few were as bad as that one near Turin, but several came close. More nurses were discovered, although not in as poor condition or quite so abused as those from Turin. They, too, were glad to see the Germans. Carrie MacDonald figured prominently in their care, making Mannheim glad he'd allowed her to stay after all.

Fighting and general resistance were spotty, and there seemed to be few troops loyal to the _fascisti_ in the north. Reports from the three southern columns showed hard going up the spine of Italy and the east coast, but those troops were making good, steady progress and appeared to be on schedule. They would be meeting up somewhere near Rome---and the Italian government _still_ didn't seem to realize that something was going on. Rob Hogan couldn't help shaking his head in amazement over that news; even _Klink_ would have realized that something was happening by this point.

It was now late February; they would soon be done and able to see to other problems. They had gotten word that there was still trouble sending the English POWs home, though the French and Belgians had all been released.

Few German POWs had come back from England, either. Apparently the British occupation government was dragging its heels, and their German overseers were trying not to stir up trouble by insisting. _The idiots,_ Mannheim fumed nightly, for this only created more problems for him.

The last camp to be liberated was northeast of Rome itself, and the fighting was fierce; it was the first liberation to be contested seriously by the Italians. Hogan wasn't surprised, since this was the last area still held by Mussolini and the _fascisti._ It proved to be a good thing that two columns of Rommel's Panzers joined them there, or they might have lost most of the prisoners. As it was, one of the commanders of the southern column was sorely wounded and had to be shipped to Berlin for follow-up medical care. But all the surviving POWs in Italy were in German hands now, sent to Stalags and Luftstalags that had once held French and Belgian prisoners, until they, too, could be processed and returned to their homes. The paratroopers and several units of former SS troops were to go into Rome itself and take over the government. No _fascisti_ were to be allowed to maintain control, and Mussolini was to be taken and executed for the war crimes that were allowed to be perpetrated---as the man in charge, his was the ultimate responsibility, whether he knew of them or not. No doubt the rest of the world would view this as harsh, but the Germans had learned a bitter lesson from Hitler and his cronies; they would not allow _this_ rot to fester to their south. The Italian people would not be punished or molested, since they'd had little choice once matters had sped out of control. They were but peasants, after all.

Mannheim and his staff would not be staying here; Rommel's men would be in charge of controlling Italy.

Hogan was just as glad to see the last of the country, as he lifted Mannheim's plane for Germany once more. Truth be told, _any_ destination would have suited him, just as long as he was flying again. He was in his element now; the plane handled well, and he was content.

The Luftwaffe copilot grinned at the look of pure bliss on the bondsman's face. The colonel who'd flown the Heinkel down to Italy was an old friend of Mannheim's, so he was happily ensconced in the back, catching up with the general on family news. All too soon for Hogan's taste, they were wheels-down in Germany once more.

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Again at the quarters Mannheim maintained in Berlin, Hogan chafed at his inactivity, but there were meetings the general had to attend after the action in Italy. All Hogan knew was that he was _bored._ They'd been here four days so far, and Hogan was finding it harder to stay out of trouble. Mannheim couldn't help but notice.

"Hogan," the general said at last, "why don't you go order your copilot's uniforms? We have his sizes, after all."

The American looked up alertly. "Has he agreed to do it, then?" he asked, hoping the still-unnamed individual had. Rob needed a friend here, someone in circumstances similar to his own. _Leutnant_ Weber was a nice guy, but, between his duties as Mannheim's aide and his new girlfriend, Lieutenant MacDonald, he hadn't been much company lately.

"He will, I'm sure," Mannheim said as he leaned back casually in his armchair. "After all this time with nothing to do, surrounded by _your_ men? I am certain that he will agree to fly with you. That will free a second German pilot for military duties instead of having to wait on my requirements."

"Yeah, it will. You'll just be tying up a navigator and a radioman now," Hogan started to tease his superior, but paused as the general looked up at him thoughtfully. "What's going through that devious mind of yours now?"

"Oh, nothing much," Mannheim returned absently, then grinned at Hogan, a wicked gleam in his eye. "I was just wondering if I should try for a matched four-in-hand, or go for two different matched pairs."

"Very funny." Hogan tried to sound annoyed, but ended up snickering instead. "Don't you have more important things to worry about, sir?" he asked, trying to be serious again.

"Oh? Like what?" Mannheim returned. "Should I worry about how much of your funds and supplies I have not yet found? Or where you might have hidden explosives or other munitions that you've forgotten about? Or where contacts of yours might lurk unsuspected and forgotten?" The humor had all left his eyes now; he was no longer relaxed in his chair.

`"No, sir," Hogan answered quietly. "There may still be some of my money around, but you've gotten all my contacts, except NIMROD. _I_ never knew who he was, either. But I checked records; you've found all of mine." He paused, then laughed softly and looked at Mannheim, one eyebrow raised. "I wonder if you've found all of _yours_ yet."

That got Mannheim's attention, and he sat up straighter in his chair. "What do you mean, 'all of ours'?"

"Well, sir," Hogan began thoughtfully, "we found a lot of plants, especially right before the SS and Gestapo were brought down. They came into camp with false papers as captured British or American-born fliers, trying to infiltrate our organization. Most were so obvious it was pitiful, but even the best ones messed up eventually. And I'm sure Stalag 13 wasn't the only camp that had 'em. I always got ours transferred out to other camps; I convinced Klink that they were too likely to foul up his 'no escape' record, so he was usually happy to oblige---at least for the ones _he_ didn't know about. We discredited the others."

"And you think they may still be out there?" Mannheim was incredulous. "Why wouldn't they identify themselves to their new Kommandants?"

"Well, some of them were sent with warnings---you know, how they would lie about stuff. At least the ones that were sent out of Stalag 13. Others?" Hogan shrugged. "Maybe they kept quiet to save their own necks, since the SS and Gestapo weren't exactly in good odor after Hitler and Himmler were taken out. Or maybe they saw it as a way to get out of the war. The only ones who'd know for sure would be them, sir."

"They would not be easy to find; I doubt they would volunteer their identities at this point."

"You still have all the old SS personnel records, don't you? And the Gestapo's?" Hogan was leaning forward eagerly now. "Let _me_ look through 'em; I can compare any suspicious ones to the POW camp records." He paused at Mannheim's hesitant expression. "I don't mean the Waffen-SS, sir; I know there are still active units of those. The SD and SA though…"

"It _will_ give you something constructive to do, at least," Mannheim allowed as he studied his bondsman. "You are bored, Hogan, and when you are bored, you are dangerous. Yes, I think this _would_ be a good project for you to take on.

"So. I will give the orders tomorrow, and you will see how many moles are still out there in their burrows. _But…_you will not expose any of _mine_ that you might discover. _Versteht'?"_

"I wouldn't dream of it, _mein General,"_ Hogan responded, but he couldn't help wondering exactly what Mannheim meant, or how many of them there might be.

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Mornings saw Hogan dropped off in front of the old SS headquarters, accompanied by two _soldaten._ He couldn't help wondering if the men were there to guard him or to protect him, but he didn't question their presence. Drawing a deep breath for courage, he climbed the steps and headed for the records room. From some of the looks he was given in the hallways, Hogan was glad to have the two guards ghosting at his heels---if you could consider stomping jackboots as "ghosting." The mental image made him want to chuckle.

Eventually he arrived at the file room without incident; the people there grudgingly pointed him toward the personnel records. He stood staring at the long file drawers of jackets. Yes, he _could_ plow through all of them, but it would take forever, and he could still miss what he was looking for; what he wanted might even be kept elsewhere. If he were an SS file clerk, where would he put the files of the people involved with a special project?

With the file for that project, of course. He went back to the desk of the _Feldwebel_ in charge. «Excuse me. My General has sent me to look for specific Files, Herr Feldwebel. He wants the Files of the Men who were involved with Investigations of POW Camps, especially during the last…twelve to eighteen Months of the War. Do you know where those Project Files are?» He was very polite, very formal, praying that this man was in the mood to be helpful.

«Who did you say wants this Information?» the desk sergeant asked, looking over Hogan's uniform suspiciously.

«I _didn't_ say,» Hogan answered shortly. «It's General Friedrich Sebastian Mannheim, from the Inspector General's Office. He's tied up in Meetings, so he found Busywork to keep me out of Trouble. He _does_ want the Information, though.»

«And _you_ are?»

"Former Group Captain Rob Hogan, Bond to General Mannheim. And yes, I read German with no trouble,» Hogan replied with a sigh, expecting a long drawn-out argument, resolvable only with a call to Mannheim himself.

But the sergeant nodded, satisfied. «I did receive a Memo saying you would be here. You must realize that these Files are now classified; not just anyone has access to them. Do you know the Codename for the Project or Investigation you are looking for?»

«No.»

The Feldwebel sighed. «That is unfortunate. There are still many Files that have not been examined; we do not know what sort of Project they were for. There is a List, with Descriptions of Objectives, for Operations that have been investigated so far, but it seems to be very slow going,» he explained.

«That's a Place to start, at least,» Hogan said, trying to be cheerful about it. He accepted a thick file with trepidation and moved to a nearby desk to go through it.

Two hours later, he sat back with a sigh. Nothing sounded even close to what he wanted. He stretched his aching back and wished for a drink, then looked up suddenly, realizing that his escorts looked as uncomfortable as he felt, and smiled. «If you Men want to take a Smoke Break and get something to drink, go ahead. Spell each other; I'm going to be here for quite some Time, it seems, so there's no Reason for all of us to be miserable. And if one of you would bring back a Kaffe for me…?"

They chuckled and came to heel-clicking attention, the older of the pair headed out the door in search of…

«If you need them, the Facilities are to the left as you go out the Door,» the _Feldwebel_ said quietly. «There is an Orderly Room nearby also.»

«I appreciate that,» Hogan told him with a nod of thanks. «I have to keep looking, though. Where are the Files that haven't been closely examined yet? Is there a List of Operation Names? A central Index, perhaps?»

«No one has found the Index yet,» the Feldwebel admitted with a sigh. «It should have been in here somewhere, but seems to have been hidden.»

«Hidden?» Hogan felt his ears perk up at that. «Mind if I look? I'm good at hiding Things; maybe I can find your Master List.»

«I don't know…» the _Feldwebel_ began uncertainly, looking around for someone in authority to make this decision for him. Hogan was about to try to convince him, but support came unexpectedly from his remaining guard.

«You should let him look, Herr Feldwebel,» the young _Soldat_ urged. «I saw some of what he and his Men had hidden during the War; it was incredible. And I have heard that even more was hidden among the Goods that we did find.»

Hogan pasted his most hopeful, helpful look on his face.

The _Feldwebel_ sighed. «Oh, all right; see what you can find.»

That was all Hogan needed. First he checked the common places: bottoms of drawers and backs of desks for hidden compartments. He checked the file drawers; he even looked for a file called "index." Nothing. Then, with a grin, he had the _Feldwebel_ get up and help him shift the desk. Carefully he examined the seams in the flooring, and his grin widened. He looked up and snagged a paper clip from the desk, unbent it, and inserted one end into the tiny hole he found. Wiggling it carefully, he then lifted until a section of the floor came up. Beneath it was a floor safe. «Call your Superior,» Hogan instructed and stepped back to wait.

Naturally no one there knew the combination to the newly discovered safe. _Offizieren_ of higher and higher rank were sent for, until eventually Mannheim came in, along with the others from his meeting. The general grinned when he saw Rob standing quietly to one side. "Ah, Hogan, why am I not surprised?" he said to his bondsman, his voice cheerful, instead of angry as the other officers had expected.

"You know me too well, my general," Hogan laughed back, but then quickly sobered. "I wish Newkirk were here; he'd get it open in no time."

_"What?!" _Mannheim cried playfully. "There is something _you_ cannot do?"

Hogan went all formal on him. «He taught me, _mein General,_ but I am not nearly as skilled as he. I will try, though, if you wish it.»

The other Germans stared at him as if noticing him for the first time. Hogan looked back at them and grinned. "Oops," he said, casting a glance over at Mannheim, who sighed loudly.

«Try, Hogan,» the general told him. «It would be better if this stayed among Secure Personnel. Do you need anything?»

«A Stethoscope, _mein General,»_ Hogan replied, already back down on the floor, studying the safe. He looked back up. «And, if possible, I need all unnecessary People to leave. Their Footsteps will carry through the Floor, making this harder. I haven't seen this type of Safe before.»

«If you cannot do this, I will send for Corporal Newkirk.» Mannheim looked around at his fellow officers. «Meine Herren, if you would be so good? Those who need to know will be shown the Safe's Contents once it is opened.»

«And you do not consider _this_ a Breach of Security?» one old staff colonel demanded, waving a hand at Hogan in agitation. «He is the Enemy!»

«No, it is no Security Breach. Hogan is _my_ Man; he will tell no one. The Gestapo could not break him, though they tried hard enough. He has the Scars to prove it.» He saw the doubt in the others' eyes and knew he had to settle this. «No one has ever broken PAPA BEAR. No one ever will. He will die first.»

Hogan ignored the quiet murmuring that broke out, concentrating on the safe. He eased the dial around, trying to feel the unevenness that would indicate the position of one of the tumblers. He thought he felt several, but knew he had to wait. He had to get this right, for Mannheim's sake.

Then the general was crouching next to him, speaking for his ears alone. "What do you hope to find here, Hogan?"

"Master lists for the files; operation codenames and objectives mainly, sir. And any other skeletons that may be lurking in the closets." He looked up into Mannheim's eyes and grinned. "Y'see, no one here could find the master list, sir."

"Good work, then---whether the list is in there or not. I take it no one knew about that safe, either."

"No, sir."

_"Sehr gut._ I think I will have you go over some of the offices, also, once you are done here. Who knows _what_ treasures you may unearth in such a hunt?" Mannheim was clearly enjoying himself, but he rose and stepped out of the way when a guard brought in the requested stethoscope.

It took a while, for Hogan had never been that good at safe-cracking and was sadly out of practice. Every time someone shifted, it obscured the sound of the tumblers. But he persevered; eventually the lock clicked, and he was able to swing the door up and open. He would have been trampled if Mannheim hadn't been standing over him. _«Thank_ you, Gentlemen,» the general called as he stopped the rush. «This is now Abwehr Business, and that of the IG's Office. These Papers will be forwarded to the appropriate Offices once they have been examined and catalogued. That will be all.» He gestured, and Hogan's guards came forward and eased all the others out of the office, leaving only Hogan, Mannheim, and the _Feldwebel_ whose duty it was to man that desk. Hogan carefully lifted out his find, a thick stack of file folders. The _Feldwebel, _not slow by any means, brought out a large locking attaché case and opened it, very pointedly not looking at what was placed therein. After it was closed and locked, Mannheim, to Hogan's surprise, locked the attached handcuff to the American's left wrist.

«You have your Pistol; wait for me in my Office. These Men will see you safely there,» Mannheim ordered, his voice calm.

«Zu Befehl, mein General,» Hogan responded, the only reply he possibly could have made.

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Hogan cooled his heels in Mannheim's office fully two hours before the general arrived, practically growling. He glared at his bondsman, who was sitting in one of the armchairs and trying to look innocent. «All right, Hogan,» he snapped. «What is in those Files?»

«Truly, mein General, I don't know,» Hogan answered without hesitation. «I didn't look at them; didn't even open the Case. You can verify this with my Guards; one was in here with me all the Time.» Sincerity positively dripped from his voice, making Mannheim want to doubt his word, but the two guards nodded in confirmation when he looked at them.

«It seemed wisest to wait for you, Herr General,» the senior of the two spoke up cautiously.

All Mannheim could do was sigh. «Very well, Rob,» he said, forcibly cooling his temper. «Let's see what you've found now.»

They found the master log and were far from happy with the contents, for some of the listed operations were absolutely abhorrent. Hogan was truly grateful that the SS and Gestapo were out of business, for, among other things, there were plans to exterminate all the POWs in Germany. But they also found the file Hogan was looking for, with the very uninspired name, "Operation: MOLE." «I'd have called it something like, oh, 'Operation: CHICKEN COOP,' or 'FOX IN THE HENHOUSE,'» Hogan quipped, trying to overcome the residual sickness he felt from some of those files.

«No Doubt, » Mannheim laughed. «You and your Men would have done a better Job of Infiltration, too. Are there any Moles left in place, unable to escape themselves?»

«Well, there were forty-seven Men listed here, Sir; I'll have to check their Personnel Jackets to see how many were extracted before the Operation was shut down. I know we had Klink transfer one to Stalag 5 the Day before the SS was shut down, with a Warning to the Kommandant that the Man was a pathological Liar.»

«Oh, you _are_ wicked!» Mannheim laughed, his eyes glinting. «It is what he deserves. Is he on your List?»

«Mm-hmm,» came the affirmative reply. «I'll see if he got pulled out. 'Be back, _mein General._ C'mon, Boys; back to the Archives for us.» He glanced at his guards as he spoke and was amazed to see them come to heel-clicking attention at his "orders."

He had no trouble getting back into Records. There was a different man at the desk now, but he had clearly been filled in by the man he'd relieved, and Hogan had no problems from him. Only eight of the forty-seven records remained in those files, however, causing Hogan to frown and turn to the desk sergeant. «Where would Personnel Files be if they are not here, Herr Feldwebel?» he asked politely.

The man looked at the stack of eight files that Hogan now carried and nodded suddenly. «Files were pulled as Men were tried…» He paused, not knowing how to address the general's bondsman.

Hogan looked up sharply, then grinned. «Just call me Hogan, Herr Feldwebel. I don't have any official Rank anymore, though I used to be a Group Captain---an Oberst, that is.»

«_Jawohl, Herr Oberst,»_ the man replied, refusing to allow Hogan to decline the rank. «If the Files are still here, then the Men were either exonerated, or have not been found yet. Or they are dead, but their Files were not pulled due to all the Confusion.»

«Is there a List somewhere, or Files, for the Men who were tried and found guilty of something?»

«Ja, Herr Oberst,» the Feldwebel replied, taking perverse pleasure in using Hogan's former rank despite the current rules. «Such Files are in the Archives of the Military Police. Their Headquarters are located---»

«Thank you, Herr Feldwebel,» Hogan cut him off. «I know _very_ well where they are located. I'll check them out next. Do you knew where File number…36-289-5728 can be found?»

«Eine Moment, bitte; I will pull it for you.» He was all business now, and, within ten minutes, Hogan had the actual file for Operation: MOLE in his hands. He signed for it and placed it in the locking attaché case, then headed for the Headquarters for Military Police and Military Justice---the place where he had been condemned to death just months before.

It proved to be no problem to get into the records there, and Hogan, helped by his two "guards," quickly found that, of the thirty-nine men he'd been researching there, eleven had been executed, five imprisoned, and the rest returned to active duty in regular _Heer_ units, for the most part; four had been sent to redesignated Waffen-SS units as replacements.

So. All but "his" eight unaccounted for. Hogan returned to Mannheim's office with his files and started calling the Stalags, Oflags, and Luftstalags that were listed as the assigned locations.

Three, he learned, were dead. The man at Stalag 8, a "Major Martin,"(1) had been "shot while trying to escape." Luftstalag V reported that "Captain James Martin"(2) had been found dead in his bed one morning; no suspicion of foul play. Stalag XXIII reported that the "Sergeant Wagner"(3) being inquired after had been found hanged one night, with the placard "mole" pinned to his jacket; the _Kommandant_ had decided to let that matter lie right where it had fallen.

That left two possibles at Stalag V and one each at Stalags IX, VI, and XII.

Five personnel jackets were neatly stacked on Mannheim's desk when he returned from his meetings that evening. He read through them briefly, then glanced over at his silently waiting bondsman. «What do you think, Rob?»

«I remember Williams. He was transferred out, but not by my Request. We didn't suspect a Thing in _his_ Case,» Hogan admitted unhappily. (4) «He learned a lot about our Organization. I don't know why he didn't spill the Beans on us. Maybe he just didn't have Time? Ah, well; maybe he can tell us. I don't see why they weren't released, though.»

Mannheim gave a wicked grin. «An Ultimatum was issued to all SS and Gestapo Personnel. They had two Weeks to turn themselves in for a fair Hearing. If they did not, they would be considered guilty by Default and executed, not just imprisoned. I suspect that we will find that the Deadline had passed before some of these Men could report---they may have been in Solitary Confinement, for instance.»

"The cooler," Hogan remarked, gazing off into space, then back at the general with a grin. «We called it the Cooler, and it usually _was._ Cold, that is. Bare Concrete, in a lot of Cases.»

«Punishment is not supposed to be comfortable, Rob,» Mannheim chided gently. «It is supposed to be something to be avoided. »

«Yeah, yeah. I know.» Hogan's grin was contagious, but he quickly sobered. «What do you want to do about these Men, mein General?»

«We will see them, in their 'Native Surroundings,' I believe the Phrase is. First, though, I will have your Copilot brought here so we can have his Uniforms fitted. I will let _you_ pay for much of that, I believe; I will outfit the others if we take any of them.» Mannheim watched to see what Hogan's reaction to that announcement would be, but the American just shook his head.

«Sorry, Sir; I split what I had left between Newkirk and LeBeau before we left, so they'd have a little something to get started with. They weren't going to get much of the Back Pay owed them, and I figured they'd stay out of Trouble better if they had some ready Cash,» he elaborated further at Mannheim's raised eyebrow. «LeBeau wanted to start a Restaurant after the War, Sir, and Newkirk always said he couldn't decide between a Pub or the Theater. He told me that he'd finally settled on a Pub that offered a bit of Entertainment---like a Low-Class Dinner Theater. Besides, I didn't really need any Money; you see to all my Needs.» He tried to hide his embarrassment, but couldn't prevent his flush when the German began to chuckle softly.

«No, I do not mock you, Rob,» he gently explained. «It is just that _my_ Reasoning paralleled your own. They did not leave my Keeping empty-handed; I split the Funds that you surrendered to me between them also.» Now he did laugh at Hogan's gape-mouthed expression. «So, you see, I, too, could have used that Cash now. Uniforms are not cheap when custom-made, as yours are.» Fully in jest, he added, «You wouldn't happen to have any more stashed away, would you, Rob?»

Hogan looked away for a moment, then turned back, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. «As a Matter of Fact, _mein General,_ that was only about a third of that Stash. If you want to go back to Impound with me, I'll get the rest out. I'd hate to think of it destroyed by Accident when they finally junk the Stuff.»

(1) "The Meister Spy"

(2) "Eight O'Clock and All is Well"

(3) "The Informer"

(4) "Diamonds in the Rough"

**A/N:** Yes, I know that this isn't what happened to these men on the show, but this _IS _an AU after all. ;D


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_**February 28, 1943: Stalag 16, outside Düsseldorf**_

Mid Sunday morning. It was a beautifully clear, crisp February day - which, in northwestern Germany, meant cold. Dirk Martins stood looking out one of the now-unshuttered windows and sighed. His arm itched from the healing tattoo that he now carried, like most of the men in Barracks 14. After two months of confined inactivity, he'd given in, realizing that the Krauts had meant it when they'd said that no one would get out of camp without one. All of PAPA BEAR's men had them, so at least he was in good company.

He was so bored, he was even seriously considering accepting the general's "job offer" - to fly as copilot to some other captive officer, for that general. Oddly, no one here would tell him the pilot's name, although he strongly suspected that they all knew who it was. Very, _very_ odd, that.

But his musing paused as an approaching detail of guards caught his attention. Hermann, their barracks-guard, led the way, so it concerned their group. There were only two _Soldaten_ with him, so they weren't anticipating trouble. Other men had noticed his attention being caught and looked out also, and low-voiced speculation filled the room, until the door opened and the detail entered.

_Gefreiter_ Klaus Hermann gazed at "his" prisoners in hidden satisfaction. He'd come to appreciate these men over time, although they were not as disciplined as good German soldiers. They were rowdy and noisy, but gave him no trouble when it was important. And they could have been dangerous; he knew what these men had been and what they had done while "prisoners." He was no harsher than he had to be, so they "returned the favor," as he'd heard one say to a new man. Thus he knew they would give him no trouble now. Not die Bärenjunge(1), at least.

No; any problems would come from _that_ one, Hermann thought as his gaze settled on the man he wanted. "Martins. You vill your t'ings pack _und_ _komm' mit mir._ You are zent _für,"_ he called out to the tall, dark-haired prisoner by the window.

"What's up, Hermann?" That was the young, puppy-like American, Carter, who had actually become one Hermann's favorites, even though he was the least disciplined, for he didn't seem to have a mean bone in his body.

_"Herr General _Mannheim has _für_ him zent, Karter," Hermann explained, though not long before he wouldn't have bothered. But Carter had that effect on you, if you were exposed to him long enough.

Martins had stiffened in near panic until he'd heard that it was Mannheim who'd sent for him. So he was apparently "picked" to be the copilot whether he wanted the job or not. On reflection, he might as well take it, for all of Europe was under German control now; _any_ job would ultimately have him working for a German. So he eased his tense muscles and sighed. "What do I need to bring, _Gefreiter_ Hermann?" he asked, forcing calm into his voice and trying to be polite.

"You vill your clothing _und_ perzonal t'ings bring. Bedding vill provided be _mit den General. Macht schnell,_ Martins, or you vill _der_ train miss." He was starting to get agitated now, but calmed when the American turned and started stuffing his possessions into the kit bag that one of the accompanying guards held out to him.

"Do you know where I'm going?" Martins asked, worried now and trying to hide it as he pulled the last strap tight on the bag and reached for his coat.

"Berlin," was the only answer, as one of the guards grabbed his bag and the other hustled him out the door. Hermann followed him out, actually shutting the door behind himself.

"Looks like Captain Martins has a job," Foster said into the silence.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

_**Berlin, Military Justice Building**_

_Sunday is a good day to do this,_ Mannheim thought as he led the way down to Evidence Lockup. _There are very few witnesses, now that fighting in Europe is over._ He glanced over at his companion---his partner-in-crime today. Hogan walked quietly, carrying a mid-sized case, seeming the perfect officer's aide---until he looked over at his General. _Then_ the devilish gleam could be seen in his eyes. Oh, yes, Hogan was enjoying this. How could he not? In a little while he would get to show off his cleverness once again, that of his men and himself, in hiding things from "the dumb Krauts." But somehow Mannheim doubted that his Amerikaner lumped _him_ into that category now.

The _Feldwebel_ on desk duty was not the one that Hogan had met when he'd come here with _Leutnant_ Weber, so _he_ wasn't known to the man. This was good, he thought, as he watched Mannhein order the man to «go take a Kaffe Break, or smoke a Cigarette, or something. Just lock the Hall Door on your way out---we'll call _you_ when we're done here.»

_«Zu Befehl, Herr General,»_ the man snapped out with a sharp salute, then he fled before the general could change his mind and order him to stay and help instead, with whatever he would be doing there. The _Feldwebel_ didn't want to know; even now it was still smarter to be ignorant, sometimes.

"Now, Rob, where are these funds of yours hidden?" Mannheim asked, prepared to be amazed by the prisoners' ingenuity at hiding contraband. And he was, as false bottoms and seemingly solid items disgorged Reichsmarks and franks, Swiss dollars, and English pound-notes. Gold and silver items were produced, and jewelry with precious gems. Mannheim reached into one box for a stack of bills, only to be stopped.

"Not those, _mein General,"_ Hogan called out sharply. "Those are counterfeit. They _should_ all be marked with a stamp as such---invisible ink, fluoresces under a special light. I'd hate for some innocent civilian to get in trouble for passing one of those by accident."

"I see," Mannheim said, acknowledging this trap for the unwary or unknowledgeable. He glanced at the open case and was amazed at how much was already in it. Looking around, he couldn't tell that anything was missing here.

"Is there anything else you wish from here, Rob?" he asked as the _Amerikaner_ finally shut and locked the case.

"No; I got my stuff the last time I was here. My pistols were the main thing," Hogan answered, glancing down at the Luger which now rode in its holster on his belt. He'd needed it in Italy, and it had not been taken from him when they'd returned to Germany.

"And the others?"

"We didn't have much, General Mannheim---some of the guys might want their letters, but things are really jumbled up in here. Take too long to sort it all out, I think. As much as I got out today, I still might have missed some in all the mess."

"We will make do, I think," Mannheim agreed, starting to feel somewhat edgy. "Is there anything else? Papers, or such?"

"No, _mein General."_

"Then we will go. I do not want to stay longer than necessary here. Go ahead and find that _feldwebel,_ so he can be back at his duty station should anyone come." Mannheim paused and frowned. "You know, we could have been anyone---the fool didn't ask to see our papers at all."

"You'd be surprised to learn how often that happened during the war, sir," Hogan told him, shaking his head. "We'd walk in like we belonged there, and they accepted us. Or they'd just glance at our papers, hardly looking at them. But I agree that we need to go. I'll meet you two floors up, sir; it'd look funny for you to carry the case out yourself."

_"You_ are too good at clandestine work, Rob," Mannheim chuckled, but he agreed with his man's assessment and quietly headed for the stairs.

Mannheim had just exited the stairwell when his name was called. He paused, covering a frown with a smile of greeting for the man, an officious paper-pusher whom he knew well and avoided whenever possible. The man chattered inanely for a few minutes, but the general could see the puzzled looks cast at the case he carried. He should _not_ have been alone with it; there _should_ have been an aide with him.

And then Hogan was exiting the stairwell also, his hands still wet, as if they'd just been washed. He reached for the handle of the case as if it were his duty, saying, «I'm sorry to have held you up, _mein General;_ it must have been something I ate that didn't agree with me.»

«I didn't have to wait long, Rob,» Mannheim answered, relieved as he saw all suspicion leave the eyes of his fellow officer. Ah, yes, this was an acceptable reason. Truly, Hogan was a genius at what he did. But they still had to get away. «Come; I am late now for my next Meeting. It was good to see you again, Schmidt.»

«And you, _Herr General._ Have a pleasant Day.» The man left, all suspicions fled. And so they "escaped" with their booty, Mannheim feeling like a guilty little boy - who'd gotten away with his prank.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

_**Midafternoon, Monday, March 1, 1943; Berlin**_

_Leutnant_ Karl Weber waited patiently in the stationhouse as the train groaned to a stop at the platform, hissing great clouds of steam into the still-chilly air. It was too soon to go outside; the men he was meeting here would wait until all the civilians had disembarked before bringing their prisoner forth. Weber couldn't help wondering what this man would be like, if he would be as easygoing as Hogan was. Well, he would find out soon enough.

Eventually the platform cleared, civilians and military personnel on leave or changing duty stations leaving about their business. At last the ones he was waiting for descended from the train: two _Heer_ guards and a man in RAF uniform, the latter wearing handcuffs. Weber frowned at that; how would this ever work if such security were needed outside a prison compound? He went out to meet them as they headed for the stationhouse.

«This is Flight Leftenant Dirk Martins?» Weber asked somewhat anxiously. _«Herr General_ Mannheim sent me to meet him…»

_«Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,»_ the senior of the escorts answered. «The General will be pleased with this one; he gave no Trouble on the Trip.»

«Why is he manacled, then?» Weber felt that this could be important information.

«Some of the Civilians were getting ugly when he was unrestrained, _Herr Leutnant;_ we thought he might be safer this way. Uh…_Herr Leutnant,_ he does not appear to speak German, Sir.»

«That will not be too great a Problem until he learns; both the General and I speak Englisch. Plus there is General Mannheim's Pilot; you know that _he _is Bond, and quite fluent. But come; I have a Car. We should not keep General Mannheim waiting any longer than necessary.» Switching to English, he added, _"Hauptmann_ Martins, if you would this way _komm'?"_

Dirk's eyes snapped around in surprise, for this young Leutnantspoke very good English. His gaze met kind blue eyes, and mentally he began to relax a bit. He nodded his head briefly in acquiescence and stepped out beside his escort, the two guards trailing respectfully behind.

"You are tired, _ja?_ There is a room for you to rest before you see _unser General._ Rob will tell you what you need to know; tomorrow we will your new uniforms get ordered…ah, get your new uniforms ordered. Sorry." Weber flushed slightly at getting his English grammar twisted again. He was much more conscious of his mistakes, and had been making more of them, since he'd started teaching German to his hopefully soon-to-be fiancée.

"Whatever are you sorry for?" Dirk asked in confusion. "Your English is very good. '_Way_ better than my nonexistent German."

"You will learn. But here is the car; you had best ride in back with me, _ja?_ One of your escorts can ride with the driver." Weber saw the new bondsman settled and tried to converse to relax the man, but soon gave it up. Martins sat quietly, staring straight ahead as if he were going to his execution. Perhaps he thought that he was, Weber reflected in concern.

The dark, forbidding pile they pulled up in front of did little to ease the new pilot's concerns. "Where are we?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice under control. Large banners with swastikas decorated the façade.

"Abwehr headquarters," Weber replied. "General Mannheim maintains quarters in the residential wing here, still. Do not worry; you are not being taken for interrogation or worse. No one here will molest you once _unser General_ has made you known." But he could see that his words had done little to reassure the new man. Weber sighed; hopefully Rob would be able to settle him down.

They made their way into the building, the two _Heer_ guards leaving them in the main foyer. Still, Dirk knew it would do him no good to try to run; there was nowhere to go. The halls echoed to their footsteps on the brightly polished floor. Down a side corridor, Dirk caught a glimpse of a work party scrubbing the flooring. Yeah, he reflected, life could be a lot worse. Best to wait and see what developed.

They penetrated deeper into the building, climbing several flights of stairs, finally to come out onto a deeply carpeted hallway. Fine art and antique furniture decorated the halls amidst widely interspersed doors.

"Welcome to---how do you say it?---Officers' Country," Weber said to his stunned companion.

"Oh, my Gawd," Martins breathed; this had _not_ been what he'd expected, despite what the German had been saying.

"Come, Martins," Weber urged. "Rob is waiting in the general's suite for you; _he_ will bring you to his office after you've rested. I must get back to the general now; Rob will show you around and explain your future duties."

Dirk had to wonder who this mysterious "Rob" was; another aide of some sort, no doubt. He could only hope that the man wouldn't be too ticked off at having to baby-sit him, for it sounded like he could make his life an utter misery. Silently, he followed his guide down the plush corridor to a grouping of doors near one end.

Weber, it turned out, had a key to the suite; the unlocked door swung silently inward, revealing a simply furnished sitting room---simple, but tasteful, Dirk amended his thought. A dark-haired man in a gray German dress blouse sat across the room at a writing desk, blue uniform tunic slung over the back of his chair. Manuals of some sort were spread across the desk's surface as this man, no doubt Rob, worked diligently on them. He apparently heard them enter, for he turned to face them, and Dirk felt as if he'd been sucker-punched. _"Hogan?!"_

"Hey, Martins! Dirk Martins! How ya doin'?" Hogan rose and crossed the room, a broad smile of genuine welcome on his face. "So, _you're_ the joker Mannheim picked to be my co? Great! Just great! I'd _hoped_ it would be someone I could live with!"

"Yeah---wait; those men said…" Martins was foundering now, his mind nearly overloaded. _"You're _PAPA BEAR?!"

"Oh. Yeah, I was. Look, come on in and settle; you'll be sharing my room for now, since Karl…" Hogan broke off and looked over at the widely grinning Karl. «Y'know, you _could_ have told me my prospective Copilot's Name, Karl.»

«I'm sorry, Rob; I just didn't think it would matter. You didn't exactly _ask,_ either, you know.» Weber sounded repentant, making Hogan grin.

«Don't worry about it; it's done. I'll get Dirk settled; you'd best go see to unser General. And tell him that yeah, I think Dirk will be willing to fly with me. Later, Karl,» he dismissed the young _Leutnant,_ who snapped to attention with a wicked grin and left.

Martins stared at him. "You speak German," he finally ground out, suspicion burning in his eyes.

"Yep; sure do," Hogan replied breezily, then turned serious. "I have a German grandmother. It came in handy after I got shot down - taught my men German, too. We did a lot of damage while Hitler was still in power; we had the Underground helping us then. The last year of the war, though, things were different.

"But that's all water under the bridge now. When'd you get shot down?"

Martins frowned. "About two months after you did. I always said we brought each other luck."

Hogan chuckled. "Yeah. Fifteen missions without even a bullet-hole in the bird; then, the first time you're scheduled elsewhere, we get blown out of the sky." Now he laughed outright. "Don't go getting all puffed up and important on me; we got taken out by flack as much as by the Focke-Wulfs. They were gunning for us; I'd swear they were looking for us in _particular."_

"I still say _you_ brought _me_ luck, Rob," Martins said, his voice somber. "I had a whole string of close calls before they got me---after you were shot down, that is. They even had me in the hospital once. Then I half-thought that Jerry was going to use me for target practice on my way down. Spent the rest of the war in Luftstalag I."

"Glad to see they didn't---use you for target practice, that is. It'll be nice having one of my own for a friend here. You _are_ going to accept the position, aren't you?" Hogan let his concern show in his face.

"I guess so; it's not gonna change anything if I do. For England, I mean," Martins elaborated.

"No; England's most definitely out of the fight. Now we just have to see that she can recover. We don't need to do this again twenty or thirty years from now because she was ground down under a bootheel like Germany was after World War I." Hogan stopped at Dirk's sudden yawn. "You'd best lay down for a nap; that's a long miserable ride by train. General Mannheim won't be ready to see you until after five; then we'll get dinner. Come on; _our_ room's this way."

He followed after Hogan, still amazed at the apartment that he found himself in. "Their" room was simple, but comfortably furnished with two beds, wardrobes, and footlockers, as well as a small Turkish rug on the polished wood floor.

"You can take that bed," Hogan said, indicating the bed along the inner hallway wall. "Karl used to room with me, but he's hoping he can convince his girl to marry him, so the General gave him his own quarters two floors down. Lieutenant MacDonald is a sweet lady; I suspect she'll say yes very soon now. You'll meet her tomorrow, after we get your new uniforms ordered."

"Yeah, I, uh, noticed that you're not wearing a typical Jerry uniform." Martins tried to be diplomatic, considering his own situation, but Hogan only laughed.

_"Heer_ cut, for the general, out of _Luftwaffe_ blue for me and the RAF. Yours will be just like these. The flight suit is my own design; you'll look good in it.

"I wonder how many other guys he considered for this spot?" he wondered idly.

"I heard we'd look good together…" Martins' words were cut off by a huge yawn.

"Get some sleep, Dirk. I'll get you up in plenty of time." Hogan moved towards the door; Martins was asleep before it could be closed.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Martins' meeting with Mannheim was rather anticlimactic. Roused by Hogan, he'd dreaded meeting the man who would control his future, but the young general was rather personable, Dirk thought as he followed Hogan and his new superior into the Officers' Club for dinner. Tomorrow Hogan, with one guard for an escort, would take him to get new uniforms fitted. He would get a new set of papers showing his bonded status, then he would start his retraining for the Heinkel that Hogan flew for Mannheim. He would start learning German… But tonight, dressed in his own RAF trousers and one of Hogan's bondsman tunics, he would have his first good meal in over two years. At the moment, life was good, and he fervently prayed that it would remain so. He'd lost enough as it was…but best not to dwell on what he could no longer hope to have.

Hogan watched his old friend trying to cope. It wouldn't be easy for Martins, he knew. The man had planned to go back to England after the war and settle down; he'd gotten British citizenship, given up his American… In fact… "Dirk, don't you have a girl back in England?" Hogan blurted, although he kept his voice down.

Martins looked up, face losing color. Hogan mentally kicked himself. _Way to go, Rob,_ he berated himself. _Kick the man while he's down, why don't you?_

"I _did,"_ Martins answered softly, dropping his eyes to hide his pain. "That's not possible any longer. Drop it, please."

Hogan flushed, annoyed. He usually thought before speaking; he'd never meant to hurt his friend. But this was not the place to pursue the topic, so he concentrated on his meal.

General Mannheim, not too deeply involved in his own conversation with an old friend to be aware of what was going on around him, noted the byplay and filed the information away for future consideration.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

_**Tuesday, 4 March 1943**_

They had dropped Martins off at the office of one of Mannheim's friends, and Hogan crossed his fingers for luck. Dirk was getting on fairly well, but he needed this training time too much to be dragged across half of Germany with them, so he and Lieutenant MacDonald were being left behind in safekeeping. Hogan wasn't worried about the girl; no one would dare to hurt her now, and she was kept busy during the day at one of Berlin's rehabilitation facilities.

It had not been easy to find an English-speaking flight instructor willing to take Martins on. Hogan could only hope that his copilot didn't get knocked around while they were gone. Still, they had to go while Mannheim had the time, or they'd never go, for the general still had to go to London to clear up the mess there.

So now they were traveling across Germany to check out the former SS moles still being held in POW camps. Hogan had also gone through the Gestapo's old records---the sad remains of _that_ organization hadn't been happy, but they'd been forced to allow it. The few remaining moles that they'd placed had been located, but Mannheim had likened _those_ men to rabid dogs, and as such they would be… removed, permanently. Such would also be the fate of any of the former SS moles, should they also prove to be difficult or fanatic. Mannheim had decided to leave the final choices up to Hogan, and knowing this left the American feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

Mannheim now referred to him as his "senior bondsman" and had managed to locate some old American rank pins; Hogan now wore one eagle, on his left collar tab. Martins would carry captain's bars there, the general had decided; any new men he acquired would be marked appropriately in similar manner. This "rank" would hold no authority over German soldiers, but only indicated standing within the general's household. Personally, Hogan thought this to be a good idea, as it would cut down on discipline problems to have a fixed ranking system.

And rank _did_ have its privileges, Hogan thought with a chuckle as he settled back in the comfortable first-class compartment. Mannheim had enough rank and power that he could have taken his car for this, but the young general had instead opted for rail travel. He could do paperwork this way and need only travel with two guards, Hogan, and _Leutnant_ Weber. If and when any of the former SS moles were "acquired," Mannheim could detach guards from local garrisons as needed to control his new bondsmen. Oh, yes, Hogan laughed to himself: _It's good to be king…uh, general._

As the train finally pulled out of the station in Berlin, Hogan let himself drift off to sleep. They would wake him if he were needed for anything. Besides, it wasn't that far from Berlin to Halle-an-Saale and the first of their candidates.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Hogan stretched, trying to clear the sleep from his mind. Two hours by train to Leipzig---not all that far from Berlin, but sections of the track were still showing damage from the war, so they erred on the side of caution. The last twenty-five kilometers to Halle-an-Saale took nearly an hour, between the poor condition of the road and the governor in the staff car's engine. The garrison commander at Leipzig couldn't have been more helpful, lending the use of his own car for Mannheim's trip. Hogan couldn't help wondering what the man had to hide, as quickly as he'd gotten them on their way.

But they were here now, at LuftStalag V, the double wire fences rising just beyond the administrative buildings. Hogan sighed. _You've seen one prison camp, you've seen 'em all,_ he thought morosely. But he buried his feelings and followed his general and Weber up the steps of the _Kommandantur_ and into the outer office.

A middle-aged woman looked up, still lean from the rationing of the war, her eyes widening in surprise. Hogan hid his grin; Mannheim hadn't called ahead and had requested that Leipzig Command not do so, either.

«How can we help you, _Herr General?__»_ the woman asked, gathering her wits with commendable speed.

«I wish to see the _Kommandant,»_ Mannheim declared, but his tone was calm. «Is _Oberst_ Strauss here?»(2)

«Ja, Herr General. He is at Luncheon; I will send someone for him,» the secretary offered, but Mannheim stopped her.

"He's at the Mess Hall here? We will join him there, then, as we have not eaten our own Lunch yet,» the general announced in his quiet voice.

«As you wish, _Herr General._ I will have someone show you the Way.» She rose, all competent efficiency, and soon had a young guard leading the way to the mess hall.

The _Kommandant_ had apparently just finished his meal and was lingering over a cup of _Kaffe, _but he rose graciously from his seat to greet his guest and offered the hospitality of the mess. An orderly appeared as if from thin air to announce their choices and take their orders as soon as they'd all been seated; Hogan was impressed by his efficiency. He was soon gone, leaving them alone with the _Kommandant,_ who looked at Hogan with a puzzled frown.

«Is there a Problem, _Oberst_ Strauss?» Mannheim asked, noting the man's interest and suspecting the reason.

«No, I don't think a _Problem…_Your Pardon, General Mannheim,» he said, shaking his head. «It's just that your…Aide…looks familiar. He's Bond, ja?»

Mannheim grinned. _«Ja,_ he is Bond. He is former Group Captain Robert Hogan, and there is a very good Chance that you met him at some point during the War. He…got around a good bit. He was at LuftStalag XIII, Oberst Wilhelm Klink commanding.»

Strauss cringed at the mention of Klink, causing Hogan to chuckle. «Klink struck a lot of People that way, _Herr Oberst._ I don't believe we've actually met, but you do look familiar also. I was Senior POW Officer at LuftStalag XIII…»

Now Strauss looked at Hogan sharply. "Your German is excellent, Group Captain." He paused as Hogan shook his head.

«Sorry, Sir; I actually preferred the American Rank---Colonel---but I'm not entitled to it anymore. M'Boss says so.» He softened his words with his usual impish grin, causing Mannheim to sigh in his own turn.

«Don't encourage him, Strauss; he's impossible enough as it is. Not that I'd change him, even if I could.» Mannheim had his own relaxed grin in place, which he allowed to fade slightly. «You have a Prisoner here that I wish to interview; Abwehr business,» he added, precluding any questions. «A Flying Officer William Tracey,»(3) he added, checking some notes he'd made in a small pocket-sized notebook.

Strauss nodded, signalling to his own aide, who left immediately. «I will have him made available for you, General Mannheim. The Senior Officer will wish to be present…»

"I would prefer not, but it will make little Difference,» Mannheim said, leaning back to allow the orderly to place his meal before him. «The chances are very good that he will not be staying here afterwards. But we shall see. » With that, he fell silent, concentrating on his meal. Hogan and Weber followed his example and were soon finished.

Flying Officer Tracey and the British Senior Officer were waiting in a small office, two guards with them to prevent talking. Mannheim had the guards sent out of the room and prepared to endure the Senior Officer's protests, although he would not tolerate them for long. To his surprise, the man looked at Hogan and sighed before speaking. "I'm Group Captain Brooks, sir, Senior British Officer," the man said. "Does Flying Officer Tracey have a choice, sir?"

Mannheim studied him for a long moment. "Of course he has a choice, but it may not be the one you anticipate. But perhaps it would be best if I were to leave him with my Senior Bondsman for his…interview. I can assure you, Rob will not harm Flying Officer Tracey." He motioned towards the door, and Brooks accompanied Weber and the General out, albeit reluctantly.

Alone with the man, Hogan took a moment to study him. Tall and lean, the young man known here as Tracey was a true Aryan type: blue eyes and blond hair, although the hair was a bit on the dark side. It made Hogan want to grin. Typical SS; send in their best, which meant the "perfect" type. The man looked back at him, trying to hide his uneasiness with some small success.

"So, tell me, Flying Officer---Why don't we just use Lieutenant? I find that so much easier. That okay with you, Tracey? Or should I say, Captain Kraemer?" The man froze, although his utter dread only showed in his eyes. Hogan let his voice go softer as he switched to German. «What happened, Hauptmann Kraemer? Didn't they post the Announcement until after the Deadline? Or were you confined and didn't learn of it until too late?»

«I…» He paused, looking down for a long moment, then sighed. «You will not believe me, I know, but I did not want this Assignment. I was so proud to be selected for the SS, you see; but then the Training…It was not what it should have been, not what my Cousin had said. How could one take Pride in killing, torturing helpless Civilians? But one cannot leave once chosen, not and fight again honorably. So I took the Posting. They would have caught me eventually---my Superiors, I mean---for I would not betray the Men held here. I was careful _not_ to hear or see anything suspicious. I suppose the Men here would have caught me, too, sooner or later.

«But then Hitler was killed and the SS disbanded, as well as the Gestapo. I didn't know…» His head was down, his face deep red with mortification.

Hogan regarded him closely, evaluating. Blushes were hard to fake, even for the most accomplished actors; that and the…_feeling_ he had about this one told him he was on the level, and he actually felt sorry for the man, for the disillusionment he'd suffered.

«You didn't know what to think, or who to believe anymore,» he supplied, «so you just sat here and prayed that you wouldn't be found out. And you think you're a Coward for doing so, but you had no Way out anymore. Right?»

_«Ja.»_ The reply was so softly spoken that Hogan could barely hear it.

«You understand that you'll have to keep on being Lieutenant William Tracey; _Hauptmann_ Heinrich Kraemer can be no more. _Mein General_ knows who you are; he'll be willing to ignore that little Fact, _if_ you can serve him loyally as Tracey. You'll be thought to be _ein Englander,_ like Tracey is supposed to be. You won't be able to contact your Family ever again, if you have any still alive. And you'll have to take a Bondsman's Tattoo---are you tattooed as SS?»

Frightened eyes looked up at Hogan, but the voice was firm when he answered, «Yes. On my Side. That has always been a Problem, keeping that hidden, but I have managed it.»

«We'll work something out. You want the Job? Be warned: I'll kill you myself if you ever betray General Mannheim or cause him Grief.»

«I have no Reason to do so. But why would he want _me?_ He will think me a Coward.»

«No one who acts on the strength of his Convictions is a Coward; only those who go along with the Crowd when they don't truly believe, who _don't_ try to do something, even passively resist, are Cowards. It doesn't sound like you were given a lot of Choice in the Matter. A lot of People will look down on you, Lieutenant Tracey, especially other Brits. And the Germans will treat you like you're the General's Pet. But I will tell you that he's an honorable Man; if you go with him and do your best for him, he'll stand by you.

«Do you _know_ anything about flying?»

«Not really,» the young German confessed reluctantly. «I was taught just enough Jargon to get by. I've never even been in an Aeroplane.»

«Well, we'll find you something to do. If you want this Job. Up to you, Tracey.»

«I will do this. _You_ are his, ja? But _you_ fought for real.»

«Yeah. I fought for real. Sounds like you would've, too, if they'd left you alone. So now you can help rebuild Europe so we don't have to fight again. C'mon; let's go tell _unser General_ that he's got a new Man…even if you _are_ likely to get a lot of cruddy Assignments for the foreseeable Future.» Switching languages once more, he added, "And remember to speak English."

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They had to wait over two and a half hours in the cold, drafty station hall for the next train south-bound from Leipzig. The next leg, a two-hour trip, took over four hours, as they were held up for two hours along the way while a section of track was repaired. Fortunately, however, there was a car waiting for them when they arrived in Erfurt, along with a small truck for the guards and Lieutenant Tracey, and the general's luggage. The two soldiers sent from the camp were shocked when Hogan climbed into the staff car with his general and Weber; clearly they thought that _his_ place was with the baggage also. Fortunately for them, they kept their opinions to themselves, or Mannheim would have had _them_ for the dinner that he was longing for. Short ride though it was, it was well after dark before they pulled up in front of the _Kommandantur _at_ Oflag_ IXC. As at Stalag 13, the _Kommandant_ was out the door to greet his guests as the car came to a stop. Unlike Klink, though, this man was not a groveler; in fact, he looked irritated at this intrusion into his territory. He couldn't keep Mannheim out; still…

«Good Evening, _Herr General_. Welcome to Oflag IXc. I am the Kommandant, _Oberst_ Dimmig. How may we assist you here?» He was trying to greet this higher authority with good grace, that much was apparent. Mannheim chose to ignore the man's irritation.

_«Guten Abend, Herr Oberst,»_ he replied as both Weber and Hogan fell into place at his heels as any well-trained aide would. Dimmig stared at Hogan for several breaths, but pulled his attention back when the general spoke again.

«There is a Matter that has recently been brought to my Attention, which you need to be aware of also. We will go into your Office, and I will tell you about it.» Mannheim didn't wait for a reply, but walked past _Oberst_ Dimmig and into the office, not pausing there, but heading straight for the _Kommandant's_ private office. He only stopped once he was seated behind Dimmig's own desk, still flanked by his aides.

Dimmig colored, fighting to contain his anger when Mannheim waved him towards his own visitors' chairs. «Sit, _Herr Oberst,»_ Mannheim ordered quietly, waiting patiently until the man complied. «You, _Herr Oberst,_ have a Problem here,» he purred, leaning back in his chair. «For your Sake, I hope that you are merely unaware of it. Otherwise, you would be guilty of harboring a Criminal.»

_«Herr General,_ I have a whole _Compound_ of Criminals here, all masquerading as Military Offizieren,» Dimmig snarled, angered almost beyond common sense or courtesy. «They are much like that Animal that lurks at _your_ Heels.» He shut his mouth then, suddenly aware that he'd gone too far.

Mannheim looked about to explode, but Hogan chuckled into the deadly quiet. _«Herr Oberst, _the Men you have here are _nothing_ like me,» he said, his voice flippant. «I always had Fangs, though I kept them hidden; theirs were pulled, making them seem like sheep. And the General, here, is the only one who could ever really keep me caged.

«But I'm still a Bear; _you've_ got Snakes hiding among your Sheep.»

Dimmig looked about to have apoplexy. Mannheim took a deep breath to make himself relax. "That's enough, Rob," he said, his voice once more soft and even, the tone that said he meant business and not to push things. Hogan nodded slightly in acquiescence and settled to wait once more.

«Snakes, Hogan called them,» Mannheim mused, looking up to catch Dimmig's gaze and hold it with his own. «You did not clear your Camp of SS and Gestapo Moles last Year, when the Order was sent out. These…_Persons…_are now considered Criminals. Surely you were aware that they were here, Kommandant.» His voice had dropped to a low, dangerous purr at that last statement, and Dimmig looked decidedly uncomfortable now.

«I…had heard Rumors that such had been intended, _Herr General,»_ the Kommandant temporized, «but nothing had been confirmed, and no one came forward to make himself known. I assure you, they would have been turned in, had I known…»

«I see.» His voice clearly said that he did not believe the other _Offizier,_ and Dimmig colored in anger. Mannheim did not allow him to interrupt, though. «Be that as it may, there are _those _Men, and several others of Interest to me for other Reasons. My Men will pull those Records from your Files, and you will have them brought to us here in the Office. Is that clear? »

_«Jawohl, Herr General,»_ Dimmig responded, clearly unhappy at the thought of someone else going through his camp's records.

Hogan now found himself itching to get at those records, to see what this man might be hiding. After his time in Italy, he knew just about every known way to hide malfeasance in the records of a camp. If that were the case here, Dimmig didn't stand a chance.

But Mannheim wasn't done making Dimmig uncomfortable. «You have Guest Quarters here; have them made ready for myself and my two Aides. I also need decent but secure Quarters for one Man, and Barracks-Space for two Escorts. I will be staying the Night, as my next connecting Train is not due to leave Erfurt until Midmorning. And my Men and I need Dinner. I will see the Men selected after we eat. Be so good as to show Hogan and Weber to the Records, _Oberst_ Dimmig; they will join me for Dinner once they have those Files pulled. _We_ will go on ahead of them. Is this clear?»

«Crystal clear, _Herr General,»_ Dimmig ground out; he would not be able to interfere or listen in on the selection process, and he was not pleased in the slightest.

Mannheim could see this and smiled wolfishly at his discomfiture. «I have already had one Kommandant shot for abusing his Position of Authority, _Oberst_ Dimmig; I trust I will not have to do so again here. I am hungry; show my Men to the Files so we can go.»

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It took very little time to pull the three Gestapo agents' files and that of Second Lieutenant James Crandall.(4) As protective camouflage, Hogan pulled six other files at random, explaining to Weber what he was doing and why. Then the two of them made a rapid but thorough search for anything else of interest, but nothing struck them as relevant; they only found evidence of some minor dealings with the black market, which nearly everyone had done at one point or another. So they turned the files over to the guards, after making a list of the selected names---for their own reference, naturally---and headed to the officers' mess for their own dinners.

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Ten men waited in the office for them. Hogan found it easy to pick out the Gestapo men just from their bearing. They had gotten away with their deception for a year now, scattered among the camp's compounds, in the uniforms of different nationalities. The General's Abwehr uniform didn't worry them, for they held that organization in low esteem. The SS man was harder to pick out; Hogan mused that it was a good thing that he had a picture of the man, for he seemed comfortable in his RAF/American uniform. The other men---Hogan's red herrings---just looked confused and concerned.

Mannheim wasted no time. «Those three, » he ordered, pointing to the former Gestapo men. «Lock them in Solitary. They were Gestapo, but did not turn themselves in. We will deal with _them_ in the Morning.» The German guards looked puzzled until the general continued, «They were here to trap _you _as much as to trap the Prisoners. They were to look for Black Market dealings and anyone that they considered too easy on the Prisoners, or too friendly. Basically, anyone who treated the Prisoners like Men instead of Animals to be slaughtered.» Dark looks from the guards showed that they understood now, and they were upset and angry. Hogan knew that Mannheim would have no trouble over eliminating those three now.

Then the general went into the Kommandant's office, and Hogan ushered the first of the remaining prisoners in. Most, the "regular" prisoners, the general just questioned about conditions at the camp. The one Dutch and two French officers that were brought before him, he reassured that they would be going home soon. Hogan smirked at the thought of the feathers that would fly because those men were still here. He sobered, though, when he realized that they would have missed the Gestapo moles if the Belgians and French had been released on schedule.

Second Lieutenant James Crandall's interview was a different matter. Mannheim looked him up and down, but the man, another tall blond Aryan, appeared unconcerned until the general smiled at him. «Tell me, _Leutnant_ Schmidt, why did _you_ not turn yourself in when you had the Chance? Your Record was clean enough that you most likely would have survived.»

"I'm sorry, sir; I don't speak German," Schmidt, a.k.a. Crandall, tried to bluff it out.

«Try a different Tack, _Leutnant,»_ Mannheim laughed, dropping his SS personnel jacket down on the Kommandant's desk, open to show Schmidt's photograph. The former SS man blanched, knowing that he was caught now. He tried to search his mind for an excuse, _any_ excuse, that might save him, but stopped without uttering a word at Mannheim's look.

«Do not bother; I do not wish to hear your Excuses,» Mannheim snapped. «You just threw away your last Chance to 'come clean,' as Hogan would say. So you can spend the rest of your Life pretending to be an American-born Flier. You will be Bond, like all the rest, but _your_ File will be flagged, and you will be marked as a Flight Risk.

«I do not like you, _Leutnant_ Schmidt, although I do not know why. Irritate me, or cause Problems, and you will not have to worry about why I don't like you; that is a moot Point to a Corpse.

«Get him out of here, Rob, before I have him summarily shot like those Gestapo scum. Bring in the next Man.» Mannheim turned away to stare out the window into the dark night as he struggled to control his temper.

They worked through the rest of the selected men quickly, but it was obvious that Mannheim was just going through the motions. Finally, they were done; the seven men, including "Crandall," were seen back to their barracks. Dimmig was looking a bit more relaxed as he personally escorted General Mannheim to the guest quarters, exchanged a few not-quite-strained pleasantries, and left them for the night. Hogan and Weber saw to their general's comfort and readied his uniform for the next day. As a parting shot, Hogan said, "Perhaps I should do these interviews, _mein General._ You shouldn't have to upset yourself dealing with these men. Just think about it, okay, sir?" Then he withdrew to seek his own rest, for the next day would arrive 'way too soon, and they had a lot of traveling to do still.

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They were up at 0500 the next morning, much as if they'd been at Stalag XVI. By 0630, Mannheim and his men were dressed and outside, waiting with Dimmig for _Appell_ to be over. But, instead of dismissing the gathered prisoners, the senior officers of the various contingents and compounds were escorted to where the senior Germans waited.

Mannheim looked at them, his face inscrutable. "We take the presence of criminals among you very seriously, for your own protection," he began, pausing as he saw the disbelief on their faces. He scowled, then motioned Hogan forward. _"You_ talk to them, Rob. We need to finish this business."

Hogan looked at them carefully. "Before you gents label me as a collaborator, let me introduce myself. I'm Robert Hogan, former group leader, RAF. I was shot down and captured, then ran a sabotage group out of my POW camp. I was known as PAPA BEAR."Eyes widened in front of him, and he could hear several gasps of surprise from the nearby Germans.

"That's not why we're here, though you have to realize that my men and I were so successful at first because the German people hated what the Nazis and the Gestapo were doing to their country and the rest of Europe. So the German military took out old Bubblehead---um, sorry. They took out Hitler and his band of bloodthirsty madmen, and arrested the worst abusers of power---the men responsible for the many atrocities committed by the Nazis. One of the things done was to order all undercover operatives to surrender themselves to the authorities. I'm sure you men all saw the notices posted last year, yes?

"Well, we found some records that led us to believe that not all had done so. Three were found to be hiding here in this camp. Former Gestapo men. Here are their personnel jackets from Gestapo HQ in Berlin. My general would like you to look them over, ask what questions you like. Then they're gonna execute the bastards. But we want you to understand what's going on here and explain it to your men first." He passed out the files to the gathered officers, waiting patiently while they were carefully looked over, several Belgian and Dutch officers translating the documents for the rest.

An English colonel looked at Hogan suspiciously. "You say _your_ general…?"

"I'm American-born, Colonel," Hogan replied, trying to maintain his patience. "I can't go back to the States, England doesn't want me, and the Germans were planning to shoot me for sabotage and espionage---which I was definitely guilty of. General Mannheim thought I'd be more useful to everyone, alive. You've heard of the bondsman program, I'm sure. He's a good man to work for, decent and honorable. And it's a hell of a lot better than being shot at dawn, which is what's gonna happen here to those Gestapo men. They're lucky they're not being hung; I saw _that_ done in Berlin to some higher Gestapo officers. Not pretty, even if it _is_ what they deserved.

"Any other questions? For the record, we went through the SS files also and found their last few moles in hiding. No more questions? Okay, then. Thanks for your attention; please explain to your men."

The files were passed back to the Germans and the officers dismissed to go back and inform their men of what was going to happen. Patiently Hogan and Weber waited with Mannheim; twenty minutes later, the three former Gestapo men were led out, stood against a wall, and shot, one bullet each to the back of the head. Shocked silence reigned, that the Germans really had done this, but no one panicked or raised a protest. The prisoners were dismissed then and headed back to their barracks to wait until breakfast. And no one was more grateful to leave that formation than James Crandall.

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Late afternoon saw their train pulling into Frankfurt Station. The city's rail yards had sustained a lot of damage, but repairs had been progressing steadily since the end of the war. Many former prisoners of war had been put to work clearing the rubble and repairing track, and rebuilding was evident everywhere Hogan looked. Frankfurt would be a beautiful city again soon; many of the more traditional styles of architecture were being used, instead of the hideous heavy, blocky type that had started to become popular before the war. They would have time here to eat dinner before heading on to their next destination, Mainz.

Once again, a car from the local garrison waited at the station for them, but no truck; the two guards and Lieutenant Tracey would have to find food within walking distance of the station. At least the former mole would be able to walk the streets of Frankfurt with his escort, for Mannheim had called ahead and arranged to have a bondsman's tunic and cap waiting with the car. The young German looked relieved to get the tunic, almost as if he hadn't been sure that his fortunes really had changed. Hogan had to suppress his smile at Tracey's reactions and sighed as he heard the young man nearly slip and speak in German several times.

Mannheim heard him also and grinned; he called to his newest acquisition, «You may as well speak German, Willi; Rob does. It will make things easier than if you keep trying to pretend that you don't understand. And you are far enough away from those who might betray you that you should be safe.» And so William Tracey, obviously to be known now as Willi, went off with his escorts a happy young man.

"Just what do you think I'm going to do with _him,_ Rob?" Mannheim asked, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer.

Hogan's eyes laughed. "Don't know, sir. Leave him at home to do odd jobs? He seems to be fairly well educated. Use him as a tutor for your son? You _did_ say that I'd be deciding what to do with these men, sir. He seemed…too good to throw away or to leave to rot in Luftstalag V."

"Now _that_ sounds like a song I've sung myself," Mannheim laughed back, appeased. "Come; let us eat. We don't want to miss the next train."

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Late evening saw them pulling into Mainz, met by the Kommandant of Oflag XIIB himself. Mannheim had known Esslinger as a boy in school, and, while they had drifted apart due to the war, they had been good enough friends before that for the young Oberst to take the trouble to meet them personally. «Welcome, Sebastian,» he greeted his old friend with a handshake and arm-clasp instead of a salute. «You're looking good. What brings you here?»

«Kurt!» Mannheim replied just as warmly. «Business, unfortunately, my old Friend. I see you got my Message, that we were coming.»

_«Ja,_ but I got you Rooms in the Hotel in Town. The Citadel is old, cold, and very uncomfortable, while the Hotel… I will be happy to show you around my Rock-Pile, though.»

«A comfortable Bed will be very welcome, although we will have to leave early Tomorrow. I go south, to Stuttgart.»

«Ah, yes, and only one Train through, unless you want a long layover in Karlsruhe. Very well; I will give you the Tour tonight, then. Will you bring your Men, or would you prefer to leave them at the Hotel?» he asked as they settled into the large touring car that Esslinger had brought down to the station.

Mannheim chuckled. «You know me well, still. Karl and Rob come with me; Willi and the Guards can wait at the Hotel. Our Business should not take long; you hold a Man that I must see.»

«I will see that he is made available for you,» Oberst Esslinger assured his visitor, all Kommandant now, the '"friend" put aside until business was finished.

«Good. Rob will give your People the Man's Name, once we reach the Citadel.»

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The tour itself was relatively short. As fortresses went, this one, using sections constructed in 1660 for the prison, was particularly cold and draughty, and Mannheim decided to see that the prisoners were moved elsewhere as soon as he could arrange it. He, personally, would not have kept a dog in such quarters, although it was obvious that Esslinger had done his best to make the place livable. The "guest quarters" were little better, being the built-over remains of an even older monastery, and all the visitors were grateful for the hotel rooms down in Mainz town. Even Esslinger's own quarters, where the general and his old friend ended the tour, were poor in quality and decidedly lacking in comfort.

«So, would you like the Prisoner brought here, Sebastian?» Esslinger asked as they sipped glasses of Schnapps beside the small fire that failed to banish the room's chill and damp.

«This appears to be as good a Place as any,» Mannheim agreed, not really wanting to move if the truth were told. He settled back more comfortably into his chair and wondered what this man would be like.

Hogan had followed his general quietly all throughout the tour. He had seen little to explain the growing sensation of… He wasn't sure quite how to describe it. Uncomfortable? Edgy? It was as if a mission were about to go horribly wrong. Surreptitiously he unsnapped the flap of his holster, folding it back to make his Luger more readily accessible. Mannheim could laugh at him later for this, but Hogan had learned in an unforgiving school not to ignore gut feelings. So he stood quietly, back in the shadows, and waited.

Mannheim was studying the man's POW file when he was ushered into the room. He looked up from the picture to the man brought to stand before him. This one, Hogan saw, was no Aryan. A bit below average height, he was stocky and had dark hair and eyes. Hogan had to admit that he had his rôle down perfectly, for he stood there, showing just the right hint of nervousness and uncertainty in his posture, shifting just the slightest bit. But Hogan had seen his eyes, seen the calculation therein.

The guard stood easy behind him; obviously this prisoner had no history of trouble with his guards. But Hogan saw that the general was frowning as he went back to studying the prisoner's file. He could feel his gut churning as his own level of alertness crept higher.

"Hmm. Lieutenant…Frank Stevens," Mannheim said musingly, looking up at the man again. "According to your file, you seemed eager to escape when you first arrived here. 'Caught or implicated in four failed escape attempts with others…' You did not like it here?" He cocked one eye at his subject.

"It's every officer's duty to attempt to escape, sir," the lieutenant replied warily.

"Yes, yes, I know." Mannheim studied him more closely. "Yet these attempts ended just over a year ago. Why was that?"

Stevens looked down, as if mildly embarrassed. "I guess I just realized that escape was impossible, sir," he said, his voice low, as if ashamed of that admission.

«Or perhaps it was too dangerous to try any longer, _Hauptmann_ Franz?» Mannheim asked, switching suddenly to German.

The man so addressed looked up in shock, but he didn't freeze. He stepped back and to the side suddenly, snatching the Schmeisser from the stunned guard and pulling the trigger, killing first the man he felt to be his greatest threat. If he were to die, he meant to cause as much damage as possible before he did. So thinking, he started to swing the barrel of the machine pistol towards the general who'd exposed him, but two shots rang out in quick succession from the shadows behind Mannheim. Franz staggered back, red blossoming from his chest and between his eyes, and he fell, already dead.

Esslinger spun toward this new threat, dragging his own Luger from its holster, but he stopped when he realized that the general's aide had all of his attention focused on the man he'd shot. Guards came charging in at the sound of the gunfire, and only Hogan's uniform kept him from being shot himself.

"Stand down, Rob," Mannheim said, his voice quiet, controlled. _That_ had been 'way too close, he thought as he fought to control the tremors that tried to make themselves apparent.

Hogan came to attention in response, replying, _«Jawohl, mein General,»_ and holstering his pistol.

«What was all that?!» Esslinger demanded, still stunned by the burst of unexpected violence. «'Franz'? Who is that?»

«This,» Mannheim waved a hand, seemingly casually, at the corpse now being removed from the room, leaving a bloody smear behind in the stone flagging. «This was_ Hauptmann_ Johann Franz, an SS Mole, placed among your Prisoners to foil their Escape Attempts and extract any useful Tidbits of Information from Men he'd gained the Trust of. He _should_ have turned himself in to you last Year; we'll never know why he did not, now.

«If I had liked the Looks of him, I would have attached him in Service to my Household, much as I did with Rob and Willi.»

«You still like to live dangerously, I see,» Esslinger's voice was acerbic.

«How do you mean?» Mannheim asked, truly puzzled. «I would not have allowed _him_ any Weapons.»

«But…» Esslinger allowed his gaze to turn to the bondsman who still stood back in the shadows, trying to draw no further attention to himself.

«Rob would only be a Danger to me if I did _not_ trust him. It is…complicated, Kurt.» Mannheim gave a slight grin. «One does have to remember that Bears bite and claw, and have great Strength…of Will; and that PAPA BEAR is very, very stubborn, and loyal once he commits himself, unless _he_ is betrayed.» He sighed now, tired by the rush of adrenaline on top of the long day. «My Business here is, alas, most emphatically finished, Kurt. Forgive me, old Friend, but we must be up early…»

«I will have a Car brought for you, Sebastian; Someone will be waiting to take you to the Station in the Morning, also. Have a good Trip.»

«Danke, Kurt, and thank you for your Assistance. You must stop in and see Anna, next time you are in the Area. She misses your Silver Tongue, you know.» Mannheim's eyes were laughing at an old joke, for he knew that his friend kept a wary distance from his wife after a very embarrassing mix-up years earlier.

Esslinger remembered the incident also, evidently as clearly as Mannheim did. He cringed slightly and laughed. «Only if _you_ are there to protect me, old Friend. Your _Lady General_ needs no additional Protection, _that_ is for sure. But…_auf wiedersehn,_ Sebastian.» And he watched his oldest friend leave with a sigh.

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The train left early that morning. Fortunately, the run down to Stuttgart via Heidelburg and Karlsruhe was uneventful. Hogan found the scenery quite lovely. Along some sections it was mostly untouched by the war, once they were away from the major cities and industrial areas. He'd never really had the leisure to enjoy the country before this, and he found himself glad that Mannheim had opted for the train, despite the attendant inconveniences. His new home… He fought off a brief fit of depression at that thought, knowing that he had no choice but to make the best of his current opportunities. Things could have been _so_ much worse. Still, he couldn't help wondering how his family and friends were doing, back in the States. He'd heard some worrisome rumors, back in Berlin…

Mannheim requisitioned a car and a small truck from the Stuttgart garrison and headed north to Lewisburg after a light early lunch for all his men.

Hogan looked at the place in disgust. Sprawling compounds covered acres, all enclosed in double barbed-wire fences. Compared to _this_ place, Stalag XIII had looked like a luxury resort. The prisoners here were separated into their compounds by nationality, and it was obvious that the care given each group was widely different. The British and French weren't too bad off, although many of the barracks looked to be in poor condition. The Poles were obviously treated little better than slaves. But the Russian compound… Hogan felt sick. Extremely overcrowded, the prisoners visible looked like walking skeletons. The stench from that area was nearly overpowering with disease, death and decay. And it didn't help to know that German soldiers were treated just as badly, if not worse, by the Russians if they fell into _their_ hands. There was no way of knowing which nation had started this downhill spiral; all Hogan really knew was that it happened here because Russia was not signatory to the Geneva accords.

«This Place is a Pig-Sty!» Mannheim growled, outraged at what he saw. He studied the place, seeing that most of the French, Dutch, and Belgian compounds were nearly empty. Clearly, those men were being sent home as per his orders. He would see what could be done for the Commonwealth troops held here. Even the Poles could start going back to their homes, though not until each one had signed papers swearing never to take up arms against the Reich again. The Russians… Here the General paused in his thoughts. One could never trust those peasants. Communism had poisoned their minds, he thought. Eventually some sort of accord would be reached with Russia, but for now these men were dropping like flies from their appalling conditions. Still, he could only hold them in disdain, for they had no self-discipline and seemed not to help each other. He put them out of his mind as his car stopped in front of the _Kommandantur._

The _Offizier_ who came out to greet them was in sharp contrast to his charges. Immaculately uniformed and clearly well fed, he gave a precise, parade-ground salute to Mannheim and studiously ignored all the underlings. Mannheim returned the salute, but Hogan thought he detected a certain stiffness in his superior's posture. _Ian doesn't like this man,_ the American thought, and wondered if he could use that to improve conditions here for these prisoners.

_«Guten Tag;_ I am _Oberst…»_

«I know who you are,» Mannheim cut him off rudely, causing the _Kommandant_ to stare in shock for a long moment. «Oberst Feldkamp, I require one of your Prisoners. You will have him brought to an Office for me, for an Interview.» There was no room for argument, and Feldkamp was wise enough to offer no dissent.

_«Zu Befehl, Herr General._ The Prisoner's Name, _bitte?»_

Mannheim gave an offhanded wave, and Hogan stepped forward, opening the small attaché case he carried and withdrawing a slim file. He handed this to Feldkamp, then stepped back to his spot at Mannheim's heels. The _Oberst_ ignored him totally, passing the file off to his own adjutant, who came to heel-clicking attention and left to get someone else to fetch the prisoner. Mannheim stalked past the short Kommandant, followed closely by Hogan and Weber, and entered the inner office. Hogan, realizing now that this had to be one of the General's favorite ways of dealing with an underling whom he disliked, fought back a grin as he wondered if he'd done this to Klink as well.

Two alert guards pushed the prisoner, dressed in the remains of an American/RAF uniform, into the office. He looked warily around himself, his dirty blond hair hanging into his eyes. Something---concern, perhaps---flickered in his eyes at the sight of the general in IG uniform, but it was gone almost before Hogan noticed it.

«Here is the Prisoner you requested, Herr General,» Feldkamp announced unnecessarily, hovering with a gloating look on his face.

Mannheim looked at the _Kommandant,_ his expression reminding Hogan of the way someone looked at something nasty they'd just stepped in. «Where is his File?» It was clear to anyone not an idiot that he was barely tolerating this officious little man…but it was _not_ obvious to Feldkamp. Hogan sighed, bracing for the coming explosion.

«His File?»

«File. Prison Records…You _do_ keep such Things, do you not, _Oberst_ Feldkamp?» At least the sarcasm got through; Hogan watched the little German turn red under the lash of Mannheim's words.

«Of course.» Feldkamp gave an imperious gesture that sent his aide scrambling for the records in the outer office. It was all Hogan could do to keep from laughing at the pompous little fool. Finally, he couldn't resist…

«Excuse me, _Herr Oberst,»_ he said, sounding respectful. Mannheim looked at him warily as he continued despite Feldkamp's glare, «I couldn't help wondering; I knew a Colonel Feldkamp in the Gestapo(5), and a Colonel and Major Feldkamp in the SS(6); you're not related by any chance, are you?»

Mannheim winced as the _Oberst's_ scowl grew darker. Hogan had caused the death of the one _Oberst_ by switching live ammo for practice rounds and had witnessed the hanging of the second.

«They were Cousins,» Feldkamp finally growled, then turned to ignore this unknown person.

«_Thank_ you, _Oberst_ Feldkamp,» Mannheim smoothly cut in before Hogan could twist the knife. «The Guards are not required, and I would not want to keep you from your Work. I will let you know when I am done here. You may go.»

The dismissal angered the man; then he got a crafty, knowing look in his eye. «So. Abwehr, is he? And now you will take his Report? There is…» But Feldkamp fell silent at the deadly glare directed at him by Mannheim.

«Why don't you shout it to all the Prisoners, Feldkamp?» the general snarled, even though that wasn't quite the truth. The prisoner in question looked like he was about to panic; they needed to get rid of the obnoxious little _Oberst._ «Feldkamp. Out. _Now! _Rob, see that he leaves the Building.»

_«Zu Befehl, mein General.»_ Hogan drew his pistol to enforce the order, causing Feldkamp's eyes to widen in shock. «Best leave, _Herr Oberst,»_ he warned softly. «I'd like nothing better than to shoot you, so don't push your Luck.»

The little man gabbled in surprise, but eventually left. Hogan slammed the outer office door, locking it with a decisive click. «What a Jerk,» he snarled as he finally rejoined the general in the inner office.

Mannheim sighed, then looked at the staff sergeant who still stood before him. "It would appear that I will have to remove you from here no matter what, now," he said, switching to English. "I know, only too well, that you are not Abwehr, Sergeant Williams.(7) But those fools out there will never be convinced otherwise, and word _will_ spread to the compound. Your life will be worth nothing then. So. Your file says that you were a navigator. I need one. Do you choose to come and serve me as such?"

Williams stood stock-still for several breaths, then sighed. "I can't sir. That file…well, I'm not a navigator, sir." He stopped; it seemed as if he had more to say, but didn't know if he should.

Mannheim hid a grin as he exchanged looks with Hogan and Weber. "Sergeant, I asked you if you would choose to come and _serve_ me as a navigator. I'm sure that Hogan can teach you what you need to know."

He froze, then, staring at the general. "You know?"

"Of course I know," Mannheim answered, then grew serious. "It would be best, though, for you to tell me what it is that I _should_ know about you. _And_ why you are still here."

The American-clad sergeant looked away and sighed once more before looking back. "You are correct, of course, _Herr General._ You already suspect---no; you say that you know---that I am not really Staff Sergeant David Williams. And you know that I am not Abwehr. I am…_was…_ _Leutnant_ Alfred Kroger of the SS, seconded to the Gestapo. Now? I am probably a dead man, now that I am found out.

"As to why I am still here… I tried, once, to say something to the guards, but they laughed so, they almost gave me away. I had been here for two weeks when the SS was brought down, and I had already learned not to trust our dear _Kommandant._ He seemed to feel that the Gestapo and SS had betrayed him by not taking him into their illustrious ranks as they did others of his family. I had gotten a week's cooler time for some minor infraction, I don't remember what, now; there was one other mole here, and Feldkamp had him shot when he made himself known. It…seemed wiser to take my chances and stay undercover. Sir."

Mannheim nodded. "So it would seem. So. Again, do you choose to serve me as navigator? You will have to remain David Williams whatever you choose; Alfred Kroger is under sentence of death, and, while I could override that, I choose not to do so. You will remain a former staff sergeant and respect the authority of my senior bondsman, Hogan, both in the air and on the ground. Is this clearly understood?"

"Yes, sir, understood," Williams replied, but he did not snap to attention or click his heels as a German would have.

Hogan grinned. "You must have worked hard on that, Williams," he said, his voice light with amusement. "You're almost as relaxed as me, and I'm the genuine article."

Mannheim shook his head and switched back to German. «Enough, Rob. Karl, find _all_ the Files on Williams here; he comes out of this Camp as soon as Medical can do the Tattoo.» He looked at Williams, who seemed about to panic once more. «You will be Bond, Sergeant; all Bondsmen are tattooed. You will _not_ mention the other one to anyone else, if you value your Life. I am sure that Hogan will come up with a suitable Cover Story, should anyone find your SS Number.»

«Uhmmm…how about, he was caught by the SS, and their Lieutenant put his own Number there so Williams would always remember his ignominious Defeat at the Hands of the glorious Reich?» Hogan suggested, his eyes dancing as he made mock of his own captors.

Mannheim looked sharply at his man. «Behave yourself, Rob; you are not immune to Discipline, should you go too far. I am sure you do not wish to provide a bad Example for your new Navigator.

«But, enough. We need to get out of this Cesspit, and I want a decent Meal tonight. Karl, have a Guard take Williams to get his Things packed, while I make Arrangements for his Tattoo. You'd best go with them to make sure that he survives. Go now.»

«Jawohl, mein General,» Weber replied with a sharp clicking of his heels; then he was gently pushing Williams out the door.

«Come, Rob; let us see to our End of Things,» Mannheim said, following the other two men out the door.

Hogan followed also, but asked, «You want me to check these Books for Discrepancies, too, Sir?»

«It would be wasted Effort, Rob. I know they must be crooked, for it is obvious that these Prisoners have not been getting the Rations that my Office has allowed Finances for. I will deal with Feldkamp after I get our People back from England and Canada. The sooner we are away from here, the better I will like it.»

«Yes, sir,» Hogan responded, not really satisfied, but obedient. For now.

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Mannheim was in a foul mood by the time they reached Stuttgart once more. The "doctor" at Ludwigsburg did not have a tattoo kit, and, after seeing the inside of the prisoners' infirmary, there was no way that the general would have had even his dog treated there. So Williams was forced to travel in manacles, which soured his disposition. Hogan suppressed a smirk at that, remembering all the times that he himself had been chained for transport; he just couldn't find any sympathy for Williams.

Then there was the flat tire. Five kilometers short of Stuttgart, the borrowed staff car blew the right front tire, and the young _Gefreiter_ driving couldn't control the violent swerve into the bordering ditch. Their following truck managed to pull the car out again, but the spare tire, once its cover had been removed, was revealed to be flat, as well as bald. So the rest of the trip back had all of them crowded into the rear of the truck, General Mannheim riding in front with the driver.

And then they learned that the train west would be delayed until late the next morning.

No, Mannheim was _not_ happy.

The hotel was barely decent, and the management refused to allow Williams to stay there, since he was still in American/RAF uniform. Hogan had no more tunics to lend; they would have hung on the man anyway, for he had lost a lot of weight while at Stalag V-A. And Mannheim's temper climbed ever closer to over-boil.

_«Herr General,_ why don't you let me take Williams and the Guards over to the Hospital or the Base for you?» Hogan offered at last. «We'll get his Tattoo done so he won't have to travel in Chains tomorrow; if you write me an Order, I'll see if anyone is at the local Security Police Station to do up his new Papers. That Way, you can get some Dinner and some Rest…or at least if _I_ get in Trouble, that's a familiar Problem for you to deal with.»

Mannheim couldn't help himself. He stared at his bondsman for one blank moment, then burst into laughter. «Oh, Rob, you are good for me, » he finally gasped out as he struggled for breath. «You constantly remind me not to take myself so seriously. Go; see if you can surprise me by staying _out_ of Trouble for a Change. »

"Yes, sir, General, sir," Hogan rapped out in English, laughing also. He waited just long enough for Mannheim to write out a set of orders and a pass for him, then collected the escort and Williams.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

There were a medic and a tattoo kit at the main police station, so Hogan considered himself fortunate. Even better, the station's officer in charge accepted Hogan's papers and Mannheim's arms-tattoo, so he didn't have to peel off his tunic and shirt. Williams looked impressed, but waited until they were outside again to comment.

"I had wondered why you took such liberties," he began, but Hogan cut him off.

«Speak German; we'll attract less Attention that way,» the American instructed his future navigator. «I take Liberties because it amuses him,» Hogan explained further. «I don't recommend that you try that Approach yourself, though.

«You Guys hungry?» he asked, looking around at the escort.

_«Ja, Hogan,»_ the one he knew as Oskar answered, a mournful look on his face. «Our Ration-Books are no good here, though; only on Base.»

Hogan sighed dramatically, then grinned. «Okay, guys; my Treat - but only _one_ Beer each, versteh'? You're on Duty, and the General will skin you alive if there's any Trouble. So, where do we go?»

Grinning like a boy, Oskar, a Stuttgart native, led the way to a _Hofbrau_ that he knew.

«Are we supposed to be doing this?» Williams asked in concern as he was guided in through the door of the place.

Hogan looked at him and laughed. «You heard unser General; he didn't forbid it. He knows me _very_ well, Williams; he probably expects something like this. You just keep your Head down and mind your Manners; don't take Offense at anything said to you. You're at a Disadvantage in that Uniform, but we'll watch out for you. I hope.» Hogan chuckled as he remembered the fight he'd been in with Heine, although he hoped not to repeat _that_ here.

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They were partway through their meal when two security policemen approached their table and demanded their papers. Both guards produced theirs readily, although they looked at Hogan somewhat nervously. Hogan sighed and shook his head as he produced his own, along with General Mannheim's written orders and pass. «Guten Abend, meine Herren,» he said as politely as he could. «Here are my Papers and my Orders. The Sergeant doesn't have Papers yet; just his _Gefangener_ Tag. We are to go back to the main Police Station in…» he paused to check his watch, «…two Hours to pick them up. I have a Note here from Hauptmann Richter to that Effect.»

The senior man looked over all the papers carefully, then left his fellow watching the small group while he went to call the station. Hogan masked his concern as he waited, but the _Feldwebel_ was soon back and returned all the papers to the American. «Thank you for your Cooperation,» he said, giving a polite half-bow and motioning his partner back. «Enjoy your Meal, Gentlemen.»

Only after they left did Hogan release his sigh of relief.

Williams looked at his companion curiously, but refrained from asking. Hogan looked back at him and sighed before explaining: «The last time I was an…'Object of Interest'…to the local Police, I ended up with a dislocated Shoulder and a broken Wrist, Courtesy of the Police Chief. This despite my Papers _and_ an Escort.» Hogan paused, then smirked. «Of course, _he's_ on the Eastern Front now…if he isn't dead already. It's not a good Idea to cross unser General.»

«Hogan, perhaps we should go back to the Station; Williams is finished eating now,» Oskar suggested carefully, rising to his feet as a not-so-subtle hint.

Williams looked at the guard sharply, then back at the American. «They _ask,_ not _order_ you?!» he demanded in shock.

«Hmm? Oh…yeah, they do. Safer for them, really,» Hogan muttered, but his attention was on a small group of men across the room from them. «And he's right; we'd best go. That's Trouble waiting to start over there…but it may not be directed at us.» His gaze was caught by a young couple seated not far from the restless group of men: A young _Obergefreiter,_ very blond, and a slim young lady, dark of hair and eye. The girl seemed rather nervous, and her companion appeared to be getting concerned. He could _feel_ the tension in the place mounting, but couldn't just sit there and ignore the matter.

And so Hogan rose and approached the young couple. «Excuse me, Sir and Miss, but maybe you'd better leave,» he said softly to them. «I don't know for sure what's going on here---we're Strangers in Town---but I can sure feel Trouble heading your Way, and so can you. Do you know why those Fellas over there have a Problem with you two?»

The young blond soldier turned red with embarrassment; the girl lowered her eyes, then looked up. Hogan was surprised at the anger in those eyes; they blazed with brown fire. «Those…they do not approve of mixed Couples.»

«Mixed, huh?» Hogan paused for thought, then grinned. «Well, he's obviously German; by your Accent, so are you. As far as _I_ can see, there's no Mixing here,» he began, but was cut off by one of the trouble-seeking group.

«She's a filthy Jewess!» the man snarled, but he hesitated to accost Hogan openly.

Hogan stared the man down, disgust in his voice. «She and her Escort were perfectly content to _mind their own Business._ Something _you'd_ better do, Mister, unless you want Abwehr and the Security Police pulling you in for Questioning about stirring up Trouble.»

They didn't know what to make of Hogan or his self-assurance. The uniform was unfamiliar; the guards with him were clearly there to protect him, not restrain him.

But Hogan wasn't done yet. «What were _you_ doing during the War, while all the rest of us were fighting?» he demanded, careful not to say just which side he'd been fighting on. Williams choked back a snort of disbelief at his new companion's sheer gall. «Attacking helpless Civilians, just to rob them under the excuse of eliminating the 'True Criminals'?»

And then the security police were back, more of them this time. But it was not Hogan that they arrested. «Are you all right, _Herr_ Hogan?» the sergeant in charge asked, deeply concerned. «We have been trying to locate these Men for Weeks. They have caused several Fights, discriminating against the Innocent.»

The man was almost convincing, Hogan thought, and decided to let the still obvious prejudice against Jews pass unmentioned. Hitler and his gang had brainwashed the German people too well for this to pass away overnight. He had done what he could; it would be up to others now to finish clearing up _this_ little mess. «I'm fine, Herr Feldwebel,» he replied. «Perhaps some of your Men can help escort the young Lady Home? My People and I have an Appointment with your Hauptmann shortly, or we would escort her ourselves.»

«It would be our Privilege, _Herr_ Hogan,» the Feldwebel agreed and detailed two of his men for this. And Hogan wondered why they'd agreed so readily, until he overheard the Feldwebel saying something to his _Leutnant_ about "General Mannheim und _der Vater Bär."_ He should have realized before this; they'd known his name. With a sigh he turned to "his people." «We'd better go get those Papers. This Town has too much Excitement to wander around without them.»

(1) The Bear's Cubs

(2) This is the same Major Strauss mentioned on the show ("Standing Room Only"); I gave him a promotion. It would have required a colonel to command a POW camp holding officers so he wouldn't be outranked.

(3) "Flying Officer" is the RAF equivalent of a lieutenant.

(4) "Information, Please."

(5) "The Battle of Stalag 13"

(6) "The Kommandant Dies at Dawn"

(7) "Diamonds in the Rough"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hogan had left Williams at the police station overnight, explaining to the _Hauptmann _in charge about the problem with their hotel. They picked him up on the way to the train station the next morning, finding him in good spirits and unruffled condition. He had even been fed a decent breakfast, since, as the day-shift commander said, he was only there for safekeeping.

But a whole day was wasted by the time they pulled into Düsseldorf's station, and Mannheim was ready to call it enough. Rob would argue, most likely, but he could catch a flight from the airbase near Stalag XVI and be back in Berlin that much sooner.

«But, Sir, you still have a Man at Dortmund…» Rob's protest was falling on deaf ears, or so he thought until he was cut off.

«I have more to do than collect new Playmates for you, Hogan,» Mannheim snapped, angry at the argument. He did _not_ have to explain himself to Hogan; still… «I can have the _Kommandant_ at Stalag VI-D pull out the Mole and dispose of him; I do _not_ have to personally deal with all these Men. I _still_ have to go straighten out that Mess in London, and Work is piling up here as well. _And_ I have to retrieve _Hauptmann_ Martins from Berlin still, before all of the rest. Now, enough!»

Hogan flushed at the angry reprimand, but he wasn't done yet, not by a long shot. «Yes, mein General; you are right…but if you have Martins fly your Plane here from Berlin, it will serve several Purposes, Sir.» He paused to let his superior's explosion pass, but Mannheim visibly reined in his temper and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at his conniving bondsman.

«Go on,» Mannheim drawled as Hogan still waited for permission to speak further. This technique worked far better with the General than just plowing on ahead the way he'd done with Klink, Hogan had found.

«If you just _send_ for your Plane and Martins, _and_ Leutnant Weber's Girl, you won't lose Time you could spend here at Stalag XVI, dealing with what's piled up. He'll get Experience - hands-on Experience with a skilled Pilot, but _without_ putting you at Risk, Sir. This Way you'll save more than the two Days it would take by Train, or even the Day you'd spend if you fly in, because you _know_ that they'll tie you up in Meetings for at least several more Days if you set Foot in Berlin yourself.

«This way, Dirk can fly in several Bolts of Material so we can have some Uniforms made for the new Guys - there's a decent enough Tailor here in Düsseldorf for 'Other Ranks' - and I can go to Dortmund _for_ you. Sir.»

Mannheim looked at his man in silence for a long moment before sighing. «Klink never stood a Chance against you, Hogan. You have a Knack for making every Disadvantage seem like a Golden Opportunity, just to get your own Way.

«Have you ever met Oberst Malberger?»(1)

«Malberger? Who's he?» The nonsequitur had Hogan puzzled.

Now Mannheim grinned. «He's the _Kommandant_ at Stalag VI-D. He will _not_ like you, Rob. It might be interesting to see if even you can charm that Man.

«So. I will try this _your_ Way, Rob. _However.» Mannheim_ gave a shark-like grin. «If you fail to bring back FitzGerald, _or_ if you take longer than…twenty-four Hours to do so, _you,_ my fine Bondsman, will spend two Weeks in the Cooler, like any common POW. Is that clear?»

«What if he's unsuitable, mein General?» Hogan asked, for that was a possibility.

«You'd best hope that he is. Dismissed; I'd recommend you waste no Time, Hogan, for the Clock is started _now.»_

The thought "unfair!" sprang to Hogan's mind, but he just drew himself up to a very sloppy "attention" and replied, «Zu Befehl.» His grin spoiled the effect. «Can I have my Orders, Sir?»

Mannheim smirked back. «You have all you're getting. You're wasting Time, Hogan.»

Hogan's cocky grin slipped a bit at that. «Uh…Yes, Sir,» he said, thinking furiously, then nodded and left the office, heading for the compound and Barracks 14.

And Mannheim smiled behind his back and left orders that no one was to interfere with Hogan, no matter what he came up with.

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Hogan nearly ran into the Barracks _Gefreiter_ as he went bounding up the two steps into the building. _"Whoa!"_ he gasped, rocking back on his heels as he tried to maintain his balance. "''Scuse me, _Gefreiter. _All the boys in?"

Hermann scowled briefly, but answered slowly, _"Ja,_ they are in."

"Good, 'cause I may be borrowing some of 'em for a couple of hours. I'll put 'em back when I'm done," Hogan flippantly assured the irritated German. He paused, reminding himself that this _wasn't_ old Schultzie that he was dealing with now and tried for a little damage control. "Seriously, Hermann; I've been assigned a task by _mein General_, but I need some of my old boys to complete it. _You_ won't get in trouble for this…but I may need to take some of 'em out of the compound for a little bit. They won't run; I give you my oath on that."

Hermann sighed now. Oh, yes, _die Bärenjunge_ would do as _der Vater Bär _said. Just because he was now up to his old tricks… "I vill to _Herr General_ Mannheim report t'is, Hogan," he warned, waiting to see the bondsman's reaction, but Hogan just nodded.

"Fine, Hermann, but I've got less than twenty-four hours to finish, so I've gotta run." And he suited action to words, dashing back up the steps he'd nearly fallen down and into the first common room of Barracks 14.

He looked around quickly. "Who's still here from Forging?" he asked, making no attempt to keep his voice down. Foster and Carter looked up, surprised at seeing Hogan's precipitous arrival. Foster didn't hesitate, though, cutting off Carter's happy greeting.

"Murphy's here, sir," he said, thinking who might be closest as he watched Hogan rooting under his bed and then through his footlocker. "Allens is in Barracks 8; Stein and Porter are in 12…Watson is in 25."

"Get me Murphy, Porter, and Watson," Hogan ordered as he put several sheets of paper down on the table. "I'm going to need travel permits and two sets of orders drawn up. At least I have all the proper blank forms, and we can probably use the real stamps too.

"Does anyone know if that guard…Heine…Jäger, that's his name---is he still here?"

"He iz _heir_, still," a definitely German voice replied from the door of the barracks.

Hogan looked up to see Hermann standing just inside, then sighed and decided to go for it anyway. "Okay. I'm going to need an escort. I've worked with Heine before, and he knows me. I'm gonna need a second man with me too, since I'm bringing someone back here with me for the General. If Heine isn't available, give my men the names of two men you think will be able to work with me. Sorry, Hermann, but I can't take you; you're Barracks Guard for my Cubs here, and I don't want anyone panicking when I'm not here for Appell tomorrow morning. The General _expects_ me to be gone, y'see." He paused at Hermann's slightly puzzled look and realized that he'd been talking too fast for the man's English. He tried again in German. «I have Orders to do this from mine General, but none on _how_ to do it. I need two Men to go with me, who are…flexible. You will have to stay here with my Men. We will be driving…»

«I will get you two Men. Heine is here. And Berger, I think; he came from Luftstalag XIII also. I will see that a Truck is ready…once _you_ have Orders.» He actually came to attention, though he did not salute Hogan, and left the dumbfounded American gaping behind him.

He snapped out of it as the requested men began arriving, wondering what was up. "Pipe down, guys!" he called over their rising voices, which threatened to rouse the whole barracks. "I don't have time to explain. I need travel permits for myself and two guards to Stalag VI-D at Dortmund, return travel permits for the three of us and one other man. I need a requisition for a truck from the motor pool, and fuel coupons for it---it's about 120 kilometers to Dortmund from here, give or take, so figure our gas for that plus half again as a safety margin.

"I need orders for _Soldaten_ Jäger and…Franz Berger to accompany me as escorts. Then I need orders to remove RAF Sergeant Eric FitzGerald from Stalag VI-D and bring him here for General Mannheim - Abwehr business; that should satisfy the _Kommandant_ there.

"Carter, can you imitate Mannheim?" Hogan looked at his demolitions man, for the young sergeant hadn't heard the general that much.

«Will this do, Rob? Or perhaps you would wish Newkirk to be here? » Carter said without missing a beat. "How was that, boy…I mean, sir?"

"Great, Carter. I'm really impressed; I think we didn't use your talents enough there," Hogan told him in full sincerity. "But I need you to call…I'll give you the main points of the script. I'm given to understand that this _Oberst_ Malberger may be inclined to give me a hard time over this. If 'Mannheim' calls ahead so that I'm expected, though…we'll see." He finished writing an outline of what he needed, then gave it to Carter to study and looked around.

"Okay, _now_ we see how much pull I have. I need you three and Carter to come up to the office with me, so we can get this rolling. I think that Mannheim's orders for the guards and to me should be handwritten; the motor pool requisition and prisoner release should be typed. I've got copies of his handwriting, and we'll save time by using real stamps. We shouldn't have any problem, no one's there at this hour. And I have to retrieve a file from the office anyway." Now he was throwing a clean uniform into his bag as he spoke, looking up every now and then. "We'll need to clear out three more bunks in here. Two will be needed tonight or tomorrow, whenever Mannheim sends the new men in. William Tracey and David Williams. We can get good and confused there; Mannheim calls 'em Willi and Daffid. Good luck with 'em; don't give 'em a hard time, 'cause at least Daffid will be flying with me. Start teaching him to navigate, someone; his papers are false, and he's no navigator really. But he's ours now, so play nice. Okay? Any questions?"

They really didn't have the opportunity to ask him anything, as he was already out the door and herding his selected men towards the main gate of the compound.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

_«Herr Oberst,_ I must report Hogan's Actions to you. » _Gefreiter _Hermann stood before _Oberst _Ritter at attention, not quite daring to approach Mannheim himself.

«Oh? And what is he up to at this Hour? » Ritter chuckled, forewarned by the general to expect something out of the ordinary.

«He is requesting a Truck and two Guards - _real_ Guards, _Herr Oberst _- and is gathering some of his Forgers.»

«It sounds like he is in for a busy Night,» Ritter said, sobering slightly. «Do not interfere with him; see that the Escort is ready, and a Truck, but do not release them to Hogan unless his Orders look good…as I have no doubts they will. He is too much a Professional to allow shoddy Work, even rushed like this. Oh, and see that Ration Coupons _and_ some Field Rations are available for them. That will be all, _Gefreiter._ Dismissed.»

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The truck rolled away from Stalag XVI two hours after Hogan heard his orders from Mannheim. They would be driving all night, and _he_ was tired from traveling all day. And it would take nearly six hours to get to Dortmund - unless they could override the truck's governor. Not that it was such a good idea to go too fast over these roads, Hogan reminded himself as the truck hit another large pothole. He'd have to talk to Mannheim about getting crews out to repair the winter's frost-heaving on the main roads.

Heine and Franz spelled each other at the wheel, the other napping in the passenger seat alongside Hogan. _He_ was dead to the world within the first two hours, not even waking at the two checkpoints they were stopped at. But they were passed through with no problems, Hogan's paperwork being masterpieces of their kind.

They pulled into Dortmund town just as the sun was rising above the eastern horizon, it having taken eight full hours to get there due to poor visibility in the early morning fog. Heine stopped outside a small bakery that seemed open, hoping for something hot to drink at least, if not some fresh bread. Hogan woke here and looked blearily around, trying to orient himself.

«Where are we? » he mumbled, at least remembering to use German.

«We are in Dortmund at last, _Herr Oberst,»_ Franz replied as he, too, stretched, climbing out of the truck-cab. «It is late; the Fog was very bad these last three Hours. We had to go much slower.»

«Right…Is that a Bakery?» Hogan was out of the truck now, heading for the shop's door, only to have a large _Feldwebel_ appear from nowhere to block his way.

_«You _will not leave your Guards, _Schwein,»_ the man snarled disdainfully at him. «Get back into the Truck. »

_«Soldat_ Jäger, take that Man's Name and Number,» Hogan ordered, his German perfect. «He is to be reported to _mein General_ for Interference. Now come with me; I am hungry.» He tried to step around the man, but the _Feldwebel_ would not be circumvented. He swung at Hogan, missing him as the American quickly ducked, but hitting the man who came out of the shop door behind him as he spun from the force of his blow. Hogan saw the Panzer insignia on the peaked cap just before the bellicose _Feldwebel's_ fist connected with the young _Offizier's_ jaw.

_Oops,_ Hogan thought. _Bet that hurt. _But other troops were appearing out of the fog, also in bondsmen's tunics, to restrain the man who'd apparently punched out their superior.

"Oh, you sorry piece of garbage," the first man, a stocky gray-eyed individual in a black tunic, snarled. "I _guarantee_ you'll regret that." He turned to help his _Offizier_ up, a _Major,_ Hogan saw now, also in black. «Are you all right, _mein Major?»_ the stranger asked in good German.

The _Major_ looked down at the _Feldwebel, _who was being held down on his knees now by the other bondsmen. The _Offizier's _face was stone, his eyes cold and hard. «It is a Capital Offense to stroke an Officer, _Schwein._ And you did this before Witnesses. I think we need not wait.» With that, he drew his pistol - a Mauser, Hogan noted in surprise - and shot the offending _Feldwebel _between the eyes.

Hogan gaped as the others jumped back, complaining, not because a man had been shot, but because they'd nearly been doused with his blood. He looked up to meet the coldest pair of blue eyes that he'd ever seen. The man grinned ruefully, although it did not reach those eyes.

"Vone (one) less problem _für _the _Reich _to deal vith. Do not look zo shocked. He vould haf happily knocked your head off. You are…?"

«Hogan, Herr Major; Bond to General Sebastian Mannheim,» he replied, still in shock over the abrupt execution. He looked up again and added, «Former Group Captain, RAF.»

«Ah, I have heard of _you,_ Hogan. And I have met your General Mannheim, but before he took you. You will join me for Breakfast; I would hear of some of your Exploits.

«Jimmy, see that _Kaffe_ is brought for Hogan…and these, if they are his Escort.»

«I'm sorry, _Herr Major…?»_

«Decker.»

«I'm very sorry, Major Decker, but I have to fetch a Man for my General from the Stalag outside Town, and I'm running _very _late already,» Hogan tried to explain, but the Major just laughed.

«I know the _Kommandant;_ you will have little Luck as you are now. You will eat with me, and perhaps I will smooth your Way.» He motioned to a command car that sat by the curb, obviously not taking "no" for an answer. And then _his _man was there, carrying a Thermos of fresh _Kaffe---__**real **__Kaffe---_and bread still hot from the ovens, and Hogan was lost, until he remembered the black tunics that all the men were wearing and looked more closely at his host.

He sighed. «You're SS.»

The major nodded agreeably. «Waffen-SS,» he elaborated. «We have been allowed to wear our Blacks once more, although with other Insignia. I, for one, do not miss the Sig-Runes. Those were badly defamed by those in Power. We were not all like that.»

«I know,» Hogan agreed, although he couldn't see where this SS major differed so greatly from those others. But, again, he didn't really know this man, and his kill _had_ been a clean one. «You and your Men stationed around here, Herr Major?» he asked casually as he carefully sipped at his hot _Kaffe._

«You are _not _a canny Interrogator, Hogan,» the major laughed. «But, no, we are not. We are on a temporary Reassignment. We go to England to help release our own Men…and perhaps even farther.»

Hogan's eyes took on a distant look as he thought about some of Mannheim's papers. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and smiled. «You're from Poland, or the Ukraine, or somewhere out there. The…384th, right? _Your _Orders will actually take you…» Hogan cut himself off, remembering that they were out on a public street.

Dekker's eyes were thoughtful. «You are more into your General's Business than _meine Hünde_ are into mine. I think it would be best to hurry you on your Task. Have your Men in the Truck follow us; we will take you to see the _Kommandant_ of Stalag VI-D.»

A quick, low-voiced order was given, and then they were heading out of town, the command car followed by Hogan's truck, followed by two Panther tanks. Somehow Hogan doubted that he'd have _any_ trouble with _Oberst_ Malberger after all.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

At 0705, General Mannheim made two phone calls to Berlin, the first to the airbase where his Heinkel was, and the second to his office in the Abwehr building. _That_ office called over to the Inspector General's Office and the Office of Prisoner Affairs…and the anthill was officially kicked over. Clerks scurried frantically to gather up all the required paperwork in the time they'd been allotted. A fellow officer's orderly went to pack up the general's kit, but he found that already done and guarded by a very competent-looking bondsman.

«Hogan?» the orderly asked in surprise, but the dark-haired man shook his head.

"No; I'm Martins. Sorry; no German yet. Where's Leftenant MacDonald?"

_"Die Mädchen _zoon _heir _vill be." The man shrugged apologetically, but it was good enough.

"I'll wait here, then." Martins settled in to do just that. _His _keeper had had advance warning, having been called by Mannheim the previous evening, so Dirk had been dropped off at the apartment to get the general's things ready. It felt odd, staying there all alone, but good, too. Yes, Martins thought again, _this _was a man he could stand to work for, considering his other choices. And so he waited, while others less prepared rushed around frantically.

By noon, Sarah MacDonald and her kit had been brought to Mannheim's Berlin apartment, his kit picked up along with Martins' things, and all of that brought out to the airfield where the Heinkel waited. Martins took the co-pilot's preflight checklist and began his walkaround with the veteran German pilot who would ferry the bomber to Dusseldorf. Metal cases of records were being loaded aboard and stowed in lieu of bombs. Just before they boarded to warm up the engines, a small civilian delivery van showed up with several bolts of material in black, sand, and Luftwaffe blue. A small package was also left with them, although Martins had no time to see what was in it.

Finally, all was loaded and carefully stowed for the flight, the cockpit preflight check-list was done, and they were wheels-up and headed west, where General Mannheim waited.

The guards at the gate were understandably upset when two Panzers drew up as escort to a command car. It was all Hogan could do to keep from laughing, but he managed. _His _bondsman's uniform stuck out noticeably among all the black tunics around him. Dekker's men wore black because they had been commandos, _not _because they were attached to a former SS _Offizier._ He remembered hearing about Dekker when he was in Italy with Mannheim…in fact, it had been the performance, and restraint, of all the ex-Waffen-SS units in Italy that had won their blacks back for these troops, even though they were all part of the _Heer _now. But, since they would be going to England, and possibly Canada also, the black tunics would give them a psychological advantage - or so the High Command believed. Hogan had to admit that it was effective, even against their fellow Germans, if the reaction of these camp guards was any indication.

The car was admitted to the camp in short order, followed by the truck. The two tanks, however, stayed outside the gate, their infantry support deployed in a loose screen around them. They were definitely intimidating.

At the _Kommandantur, _an older Oberst waited for his visitors. In some respects, he reminded Hogan strongly of Klink: he was definitely a product of old-school Germany, when _Offiziers_ had been chosen from the nobility, not gutter-trash…Hogan throttled those thoughts, for he knew very little about his current companion's ancestry.

Malberger, if that was who the waiting man was, did not look pleased. Dekker got out of his car when one of his bondsmen opened his door, followed by the man he'd called Jimmy, and Hogan. He didn't speak, just held his hand out in Hogan's direction in a very imperious gesture. With a wild guess, Hogan handed over the forged orders for Fitzgerald's release---a good guess, as it turned out.

«Oberst Malberger, good Day,» Dekker began after a precise salute had been given and returned. Malberger scowled down at his visitors, but kept his silence after a glance towards the gates. «I have Orders here, from General Mannheim, for the Removal of one of your Prisoners. Would you please have someone fetch him and his Belongings; we are on a tight Schedule, as there is Transport waiting at Le Havre for my Unit.»

It was masterfully done, Hogan had to admit. Malberger had no chance to contest the orders or waste time - one _still _did not mess with transportation schedules. Within half an hour, a slim young man was produced, along with a small, worn sack of…_stuff, _and was formally identified as Sergeant Eric FitzGerald, RAF. He seemed in reasonable health, if a bit thin, but _all_ POWs were thin these days, now that they no longer got Red Cross parcels to supplement their daily rations. Hogan could have sworn that the man paled somewhat when he saw Dekker there. Still, he was bundled into the truck without delay, the appropriate transfer paperwork was filled out, and they were retracing their route to Dortmund, all within an hour and a half of their arrival at Stalag VI-D's gates.

Not a bad bit of work, Hogan thought with a wide grin. He had his man, and it was only midmorning. He just might be able to make it back in time…

"Vhen do you haf to be back _mit _him, Hogan?" Dekker's question brought Hogan's eyes snapping back around to his current companion.

"I have to be back by nine tonight, _Herr Major,"_ Hogan responded as he did the mental math. They would be cutting it close.

"Take your men _und_ catch _der_ train; ve vill bring your truck vith uz _und_ drop it off on our vay t'rough Düsseldorf. You _kann_ be back by t'ree thiz afternoon if you do that. Or do you haf to haf _der_ truck vith you?"

Hogan smirked. "No, _Herr Major. Mein General _didn't say _how_ I had to get him there, so I didn't specify anything like that in the orders I wrote myself. I _would_ like to get that truck back, though; I don't want to have to pay for it, for 'losing' it. The train will work just fine for me, if you don't mind bringing the truck back."

Dekker sat back in his seat and thought back over everything he'd heard about this Hogan. He shot a glance at his favorite bondsman - his Rottweiler, as he called him - and added Jimmy's grin into his thoughts, then looked sharply at Hogan. "Haz your General efer _zeen_ thoze orderz, Hogan?" he demanded, more curious than annoyed at this game the bondsman seemed to be playing.

"Umm…to be perfectly honest, _Herr Major…_no," Hogan admitted somewhat cautiously. "He…dealt with me like London used to: gave me an end result he desired, and a deadline, then left it up to me as to how it got done. The guards _are_ real camp guards, sir," he hastened to add upon seeing Dekker's raised eyebrow. "And at least one of the barracks-guards at Stalag XVI knows---or very strongly suspects---what I've done here. He told me he was going to report me to General Mannheim, but no one even tried to stop us when we left---and we went through a number of checkpoints, too.

"I still have some very talented forgers, although all the forms and stamps are real."

Dekker nodded. "Chust the paperz---the _written _orderz are fake---chust like your Sergeant FitzGerald iz a fake---you _do_ know that, _ja? That_ man iz as _Englische_ as _you_ are, Hogan." He carefully did not specify just what the man was, in case Hogan did not know as much as he seemed to.

But the bondsman sighed now and looked around at Dekker's grinning _"Hünde," _his pack of bondsmen. "I thought he looked a bit pale when he saw you, sir," he replied obliquely.

"I knew him vhen ve vere kvite (quite) young," Dekker said thoughtfully. "He vas not Waffen-SS, though. They said hiz _Englisch _vas good; he vould more useful be, in Intelligence. He appearz kvite skilled, to be still alife. But he iz _not _Abwehr."

"No, he's not," Hogan admitted. "That's why I have him: My general did not wish him to be left in place any longer. If he's a decent sort, _mein General _will put him in a uniform like mine, and he'll live out the rest of his life as FitzGerald. Otherwise, he'll be shot---quick and clean, as condemned, undeclared SS." He waited to see if Dekker would object to that, but the former Waffen-SS commander merely nodded.

"Ve _all_ had to stand our trialz," he agreed, then shook his head. "Conzidering vhere he vas, he might not haf been _able _to turn himzelf in."

"General Mannheim knows that; that's why he's getting this chance. He's…not the only one we've found, _Herr Major."_

"Ah." The young Offizier let that one word speak volumes. But he remained silent until his driver---one of his "hounds"---pulled up at the train station with no specific orders having been given. "Come, Hogan," he said as he exited his car, the ever-present Jimmy at his heels. Hogan saw that this man carried a holstered American .45 automatic, much as his own Luger. He turned his attention back to Dekker. "…vill be leafing here, und vhen it vill arrife in Düsseldorf. You _vill _be able to get tranzport back to your camp from there, _ja?"_

"Yes, Sir, _Herr Major;_ we can get a ride back to camp---probably with the Düsseldorf police. They will be remembering my general _very _well still, I think."

_"Sehr gut."_ He paused to check the schedule, then moved over to the window. «I need Space on the next Train through here heading West,» Dekker announced softly, ignoring the cringe his black uniform engendered in the ticket agent. «There will be two Escorts, a Bondsman, and the Prisoner that they transport. Coach or Baggage will suffice if First Class is not available.»

«Ja-jawohl, _Herr Major,» _the agent stuttered. «The next Train will be here at Two, _Herr Major;_ there should be Seats still available.»

Dekker looked at Hogan. «You will arrive around Four or Five. Will that do?»

«More than enough Time, even allowing for Delays, _Herr Major.»_ Hogan was all stiff formality now, in front of the official.

«Good. We will leave you and your Escort here, then, once you empty your Truck. We will leave it in Düsseldorf when we pass through there Tonight. Unfortunately, I cannot stay; I _do_ have a Transport Schedule to meet. It was…enjoyable…meeting you, Herr Hogan. _Auf wiedersehen.»_ He came to attention to attention to acknowledge Hogan's formal half-bow, then turned and strode from the station.

The agent's face changed as the departing Panzer _Offizier _passed from sight, but Hogan laughed. «Don't even _think _of trying to give me a hard Time now,» he said as he passed over his return travel orders. «You'll have a _very_ annoyed General of Abwehr and the Inspector General's Office on your Hands if you do. He's already sent three Men East, with a change of Life Plans for them. I don't think you want to make that four, do you?»

The man swallowed and lowered his eyes. «Here you are. Have a pleasant Trip.»

Hogan didn't even smirk as he accepted the tickets and turned away to find the rest of his party, and settled down to wait for the next train.

_Have prisoner. Stop. Arriving train Düsseldorf 1630. Stop. Truck to meet us? Stop. Hogan._

Mannheim laughed as he read the dispatch from the telegraph office in Düsseldorf. That train would be arriving not too long after his bomber would be landing. He would have the same truck pick up both sets of his people. It was a good thing that he'd not bet against Hogan; all you had to do, it seemed, was give your orders and stand back…and not look too closely at the means used. He would have to remember to leave some blank _signed _forms for Hogan to appropriate---it wouldn't be as much fun for the _Amerikaner _if he just _gave _them to him. He might not have a good forger available, the next time.

Ah, yes; the things one must do to keep one's PAPA BEAR happy and content…

(1) "Sticky Wicket Newkirk"


End file.
